A Teacher and a Housemaid
by Shivver
Summary: Stories about John Smith and Martha Jones at the Farringham School for Boys.
1. Sketches on a Summer Day

**Author's Note:**

These are stories specifically about the Farringham School for Boys before the events in "Human Nature" and "Family of Blood," mostly focusing on John Smith and Martha Jones. Some are written using the prompts from the fanfic100 LiveJournal community, others are just things I've felt like writing.

The last story is always the most recent written chapter. The rest are sorted into narrative chronological order.

* * *

Sticking his head in at the door and glancing around, the skinny, red-haired boy ran his tongue over his lips as he determined that the dormitory was empty. Latimer had finally managed to give Coleman the slip and was happy to finally get some time to himself. Striding across the room to the trunk beside his bed, he fished the key out of his pocket and opened it, then dug under his neatly-folded uniforms, schoolbooks, and supplies to pull out a large sketchbook and his pencils. Closing and locking the trunk, he checked it a second and third time out of habit; three years of attendance at Farringham had taught him that he should never leave an unlocked trunk in a room full of devious schoolboys.

It wasn't that he disliked Coleman, he mused as he walked. The boy was decent enough. Like Latimer himself, he'd arrived at the school early, two weeks before the start of the year, but unlike Latimer, Coleman was a first-year student, unfamiliar with the school that will be his home for much of the next few years and missing his family acutely. The only friendly face was Latimer's, and the boy had latched himself onto the older student, following him around everywhere. This was the first time in three days that Latimer had lost his little shadow, as the matron had taken it upon herself to befriend and console the little boy, and he planned to enjoy every moment of it.

Latimer trotted down the steep back staircase closest to the dormitory, Lloyd House, clutching his sketchbook close under one arm while he straightened his jacket and shorts with his free hand. Even though he wasn't required to wear his uniform whilst still on holiday, the few teachers who were around would expect him to look his best, to uphold the reputation of the school. He skirted around a maid dusting the bannisters and stepped into the first-floor hall.

The school, a huge converted manor house, was silent and somewhat spooky. Without the press of boys everywhere distracting him, Latimer could appreciate the beauty of the building and its furnishings, kept spotless and shining by the maids and footmen every day. The brass fixtures gleamed and the mahogany paneling almost glowed from its polish. The boy stole a surreptitious glance around before dragging his hand over the smooth wood as he walked; being caught doing so by the headmaster would earn him a beating.

Pushing open a heavy door, Latimer stepped onto the back terrace of the school, then crossed it to a spot on the stone wall that enclosed it. This was a favorite spot of his, where he could sit against a post and look out over the lawn where, during the school year, the students practiced their shooting. During the holiday, the targets were removed and his view was clear to the distant trees. Maybe later he might walk into the wood and find a place to sit and sketch, but for now, the wood itself was his subject.

Settling down, he opened his sketchbook to the first empty page, selected a pencil, and started drawing. He tended to lose himself in his art, ignoring time and everything around him if he wasn't careful. Of course, he didn't need to be careful right now: he was on holiday, and few people were around to bother him.

Some forty minutes later, he paused in his work and rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders. He then glanced down at the page and pursed his lips in disapproval. He had started to draw the lawn, ringed by the trees, but part of the way through the preliminary lines, he had abandoned it and drew up in the corner of the sheet a rather detailed image of a woman lying in bed in a plainly decorated room, the expression on her face making her look rather ill. Latimer had no idea who the woman was; he just drew what he saw in his mind. He did wish that the impulse to draw these strange ideas didn't happen on the same page where he was trying to draw something else.

He flipped to another page and began drawing again, this time keeping himself aware of what he was doing so that he didn't ruin another picture. He'd finished the guidelines and had lightly pencilled the outlines of the trees when a pleasant female voice sounded behind him. "Your work is excellent, Mr. Latimer. Have you been taking art classes, or have you taught yourself?"

Latimer dropped the sketchbook on the wall and hopped to his feet in a formal stance. "Matron. Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm, uh, self-taught mostly."

Matron Redfern, the nurse who ran the school's infirmary, was a plain, kind-looking woman who, when in her nurse's uniform with her light brown hair tied into a severe bun, usually looked far older and sterner than she was. As the school was on holiday, she was in civilian clothes, a flowery day dress without her usual apron, and her long hair was tied back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Latimer was a frequent patient of hers; while he was not one to catch colds, he often found himself in her office being treated for unexplained scrapes and bruises. Well, unexplained to her, anyway.

The matron smiled at him in a friendly manner. "You don't have to do that. It's holiday. You're not a student now, and I'm not the matron."

"Thank you, ma'am." Latimer didn't feel comfortable being more familiar than that, and though he shifted his feet to stand casually, he fiddled with the pencil in his hand as a nervous outlet.

"I wanted to thank you for looking after Mr. Coleman. He's a bit young to be left here alone during holiday and he misses his family quite a bit." She glanced back at the school building. "I have him writing a letter home right now. It should keep him occupied for another half an hour."

"It's really nothing, ma'am," Latimer assured her. "It's nice having a friend. The school is too quiet, especially at night."

Matron Redfern smiled. She knew that Latimer was trying to discount himself. "Timothy. I know it's not easy to take responsibility for another child, especially when I'm sure you'd like your time to yourself. You should know that it's not gone unnoticed."

The boy mumbled a thank-you. He always felt uncomfortable accepting someone's gratitude.

"I noticed that you arrived here much earlier than he did, almost three weeks before the start of school. I thought I had heard that you weren't going to be attending Farringham this year. If I may ask, is everything all right at home?" She peered at him with polite concern.

Latimer hastened to assure her that he and his father were fine. "We were going to move down near London and I would go to school there. My father already had a buyer for the house, but he was suddenly transferred to a different regiment, in Calcutta. He only had the time to secure a bed for me here." He shrugged. "Perhaps next year, I'll be going to school in London."

The matron nodded in sympathy. "I'm sorry that your father had to leave. You must miss him dearly."

"I do, thank you," replied Latimer with a slight bow, because he knew that was the expected reply. When he pictured his father, he saw a severe, strict army colonel who had little time for his son but expected him to follow in his footsteps. While he loved his father, he felt just as at home at the school as he did with him.

She patted the boy on the shoulder. "Well, if you need someone to talk to, or just want to chat, you know where to find me. I'm not here every day right now, but as the school year nears, I have more and more to do to prepare the infirmary, so I'm not too hard to find."

"Thank you, ma'am." Latimer bowed. Matron Redfern bestowed another gentle smile on him before she turned and strolled back into the school building.

Perching himself back on the wall and picking up his sketchbook, the boy started working on the individual trees, filling out the foliage and branches while musing on the conversation he'd just had. The matron was a kind woman. She played mother to the students while they were at school and away from their family, but most of the boys tended to treat her more like a governess: someone who should have authority and who they paid lip service to while the teachers were around but who otherwise was the target of practical jokes and what they thought was subtle insubordination; she weathered it all with a stoic bearing. And yet, when they needed comfort or protection, she was the one they ran to.

Latimer was sure that the matron was a lot more observant than she let on. He liked to pretend to himself that whenever he arrived in the infirmary with unexplained injuries, she didn't notice how often it happened or that he was hiding the cause from her, but he knew she understood what was going on; she simply couldn't do anything until he was willing to point a finger. And he wouldn't. Such an action would get him in far worse trouble with his housemates.

Pulling his knees up and propping the sketchbook on them, he finished up the last of the trees, then began to draw the path that led into them from the armoury. As he tried to decide if he should draw the building that held all of the school's military equipment or replace it with the detached dormitory, a deep voice sounded behind him.

"What are you frittering away your time with now, Latimer?"

The boy didn't need to turn to know who was speaking; the raspy boom was undeniably Mr. Davenport, the history teacher. A very tall, portly man who had been teaching at Farringham longer than any of the other faculty members, he was easily Latimer's least favorite teacher: stern, humourless, set in his ways. The boy knew that even a moment's delay in response would anger him, and, dropping the sketchbook, he jumped up immediately to stand at military attention, in a far more rigid and formal stance than he had favored Matron Redfern with, a more formal stance than any other teacher would require, even the headmaster. The book hit the edge of the wall and fell at his feet.

"Mr. Davenport, sir. Just sketching, sir."

"At ease, Latimer." Mr. Davenport, dressed in a casual sweater and trousers, ducked down and snagged the book. He glanced at the top page, then dropped it on the wall, none too gently. "Just because you're on holiday does not mean you can afford to ignore your education and idle away your time. Lazy sods, all of you. You should be practising your drills. Maybe improve your shoddy performance on the guns last year. Have you been working on it?"

"Yes, sir," Latimer lied. He really disliked that part of the curriculum and ignored it when he could. "Mr. Baines took some time last May to train me, and I practise every morning."

"Good, good," murmured the teacher. "We'll make a soldier of you yet. Your father would be proud. How is your summer reading coming along?"

This time, the boy could tell the truth. "Well, sir. I've finished all of the history and military books, and am nearly done with the Latin translations."

Mr. Davenport harrumphed; he'd clearly not expected that answer. "Not enough, eh? Come by my office later today. I've a good account of the Pretoria Convention that should be instructive, prepare you for this year's subject matter. I'm sure you could digest it into an essay for me."

"Yes, sir." Latimer managed to sound convincingly eager, concealing his resentment of the new holiday assignment.

The teacher stepped to turn away, but turned back, his expression softened a bit. "Come by at tea time. We can have a drink and a chat. I don't get to talk with students much."

Taken aback, the boy stuttered out, "Er, oh, yes, sir. I'll be there, sir."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Latimer? A bit of a chat? And scones and cream, and cakes you boys don't get in your dormitories. We get the good food," the man bragged, jabbing his thumb at his own chest.

"Yes, sir, I would. Thank you, sir." Trying to get into the teacher's good graces, he added, "And I hope your wife feels better soon, sir."

His eyebrows crinkling into a hard stare, Mr. Davenport leaned into Latimer's face. "What did you say, boy?"

Latimer realised only after he had spoken that the woman in his drawing was the teacher's wife, and that, like usual, mentioning such a thing only got him in trouble. "I'm sorry, sir. I was just hoping she'll be okay." But it didn't take strange visions to tell him that the woman was dangerously ill; he could see the desperation in Mr. Davenport's eyes, in the way he attempted to conceal it by lashing out at the boy in front of him.

"Are my troubles so well known that you schoolboys are gossiping about me behind my back?" the teacher growled. "How dare you speak to me like that? Idle, ignorant boy! Apparently you don't have enough to do. Report to the armoury this instant!"

"But, sir -"

Glowering, Mr. Davenport drew himself up to his formidable full height. "Don't you think you've said enough? Perhaps, as you clean every gun in the magazine, you'll think about it and learn to keep your nose out of other people's business. Each one, completely taken apart, cleaned, and reassembled. Do you understand, Mr. Latimer?"

The student knew more protests would only dig his grave deeper, and he snapped to attention. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"And you will keep your mouth shut about my wife. Do you hear me?" Without waiting for an answer, the teacher spun and stalked off toward the main school.

Latimer waited for a moment before relaxing his stance. Sighing, he snatched the sketchbook from the wall and slumped off toward the armoury. Even with the additional reading and essay-writing Mr. Davenport had assigned, the encounter had gone fairly well, and then he had to go and mention one of the strange ideas that so frequently popped into his head. Invariably, they got him into trouble, so why couldn't he learn how to ignore them, or at least not tell anyone about them? The problem was that they were as natural as thinking, and he usually never realised that he couldn't possibly know them before he said them out loud.

Well, there really wasn't much he could do until he learned to be discreet. _Do as you're told. Keep your head down. Don't stand out. Keep your mouth shut. And_, he reminded himself sternly as he dropped his sketchbook next to the wall and pulled open the armoury's heavy door with both hands, _for God's sake, keep out of Davenport's sight!_ Groaning, he surveyed the racks of munitions before stepping to the cabinet to gather the cleaning supplies.


	2. History and Intuition

The distant clanging bell heralded the growing rumble of fifty pairs of schoolboy feet, clad in hard-soled shoes, emerging from the classrooms and thundering down the mahogany staircases, out into the warm September sunshine. The young gentlemen were instructed to maintain decorum at all times, but even the most hardened teacher could not expect them to hold in their excitement during their short break in afternoon classes. As the herd rushed by the teachers' lounge, neither of its occupants looked up: even though school had only been in session for two weeks, they were already accustomed to this daily occurrence.

Both of the teachers jumped when the door burst open three minutes later and Rocastle strode in. As usual, the headmaster's expression was stern, but it carried a rarer emotion: frustration. Dumping his portfolio and books on a table, he snatched the mortarboard from his head and ran his hand over his closely-cropped gray hair as he began pacing around the room, his black academic robe billowing behind him. "I can't continue to do this. I'm an English teacher! I don't know enough about the Crimean War to teach it! And they can tell. They're testing me. I know it!" He dropped his cap on a nearby table.

"Welcome back to the classroom, Headmaster." Looking up from his papers, Hawkins, the languages teacher, laid his pen on the table and shot Rocastle a mocking grin. "It's been a few years for you, hasn't it?"

"Since before you signed on here. Five years, perhaps."

"You'll pick it right back up," Andrews, the maths teacher, chimed in. He placed his bookmark into his book and clapped it shut, then picked up his teacup. "Give it some time, Henry."

"I don't have time." Circling back to the table, he grabbed one of the books and shook it at Andrews. "I'm reading only one chapter ahead of my lessons, and I don't remember a bit of it from my school days. That was over thirty years ago! How am I supposed to teach it?"

"Skip to something you know? The Boer Wars, maybe?" Andrews sipped his tea.

Jerking straight, Rocastle lifted his chin with a supercilious air. "It is my duty to provide the boys with not only a superior education, but also a sense of continuity. They were in the middle of the Crimea when Davenport resigned, and they need to complete it."

Hawkins picked his pen back up and marked something on the paper in front of him. "They'll probably learn as much from you as they would have from him."

Rocastle set his jaw. "Davenport was our oldest and finest teacher, Hawkins."

With a bark of laughter, the languages teacher rolled his eyes. "Davenport was a hidebound old grouch. All he did was read to the boys from his dusty books and have them recite it back to him."

"That's all _I'm_ doing."

Hawkins shook his pen at the headmaster. "But you have an excuse. You're just tiding them over until they get a real teacher."

Rocastle stepped over to the languages teacher, towering over the seated man. "Davenport may not have been receptive to your new-fangled methods and ideas, Roger, but that does not mean he was ineffective."

"The fact that he was ineffective means that he was ineffective," countered Hawkins, crossing his arms. He was not cowed at all by the headmaster's stance. "He was too concerned with his status and his pride and making the boys fear him that he didn't teach them a damned thing. This school is better off without him. Anyone we get will be an improvement, and we're bound to get one soon."

The headmaster began wandering around the room again, shaking his head. "Not soon enough for my tastes. The advert should have appeared yesterday, all across England. I think Phillips even paid for one up in Glasgow. But we've at least a week before we get any applicants." He dropped into an armchair. "And even if we find someone who's qualified, who knows how long it will be before he can get here? But all that is immaterial. We are already two weeks into the year. Any teacher with the level of talent we require here at Farringham is already hired elsewhere."

Andrews placed his teacup back on its saucer. "Now, you're just being a pessimist, Henry."

"I'm being a realist. It might not have been so bad if Davenport had resigned during the summer." He held up his hand to stop Andrews' protest. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm not being charitable. He was holding out as long he could and only left when Dorothy got worse. She needs to be in London. But if we'd had a month or more before school started, we would have had our pick of applicants. Now, we'll be scraping the bottom of the barrel."

"I'm sure we'll get some fine candidates." Hawkins' tone was placating.

"That's why you're not headmaster, Hawkins. You haven't yet learned to see how the rest of England affects this one little school." Sighing, Rocastle heaved himself out of his chair. "A cup of tea, and back to reading about the war." Striding over to the cupboard, he poured himself a cup and retreated to the corner chair with his book.

Silence descended on the room as the teachers returned to their employments. It was broken fifteen minutes later by the bell for classes and a second rush of students, this time heading in from the outdoors. A few minutes later, the lounge door opened and a woman in a dress and apron, with her light brown hair tied up in a bun, entered, carrying a large, thick envelope.

"Ah, Headmaster! I had hoped I would find you here."

"Matron Redfern." The headmaster, as well as the other two teachers, rose from their seats to greet the school's nurse, though Andrews and Hawkins sat back down immediately afterwards. "How can I help you?"

"An express arrived for you. I got it from Ames just now." She crossed the room and held the envelope out.

"Ah, thank you." Setting his book on a nearby table, Rocastle accepted the envelope and carefully unsealed it. As the matron stepped to the cupboard to tidy the tea things, he pulled its contents out and leafed through it, his face slowly darkening with a puzzled frown.

The matron peered at him. "Is everything all right, Headmaster?"

"Er, yes. Yes, it is. Everything is fine." He glanced at Hawkins and Andrews. "This is an applicant for Davenport's position."

"You see! People are responding in excellent time!" As he caught the look on Rocastle's face, Andrews' broad grin fell. "Is something wrong with him?"

Rocastle shuffled back to the first paper in the sheaf. "His name is John Smith. A friend of someone on the faculty perhaps? You'd think someone would tell me if they were recommending a friend."

Andrews shrugged. "Not one of mine. Why do you think that?"

"It's been a day since the advert went out." He shook the sheaf at the maths teacher. "This has arrived too quickly."

"Well, sir, that's what an express is for, isn't it?" The matron cocked her head with an encouraging smile.

"Look at this." He handed the papers around to the other faculty members. "Honours at the University of Birmingham. An excellent record at King Edward's School -"

"Oh, that is a fine school!" Hawkins nodded to Matron Redfern. "I applied there when I first graduated from university."

Rocastle continued to recite the curriculum vitae. "Awards for excellence. Strong history of extracurricular activities for the boys. And community activities. He's even enclosed letters of recommendation, from the headmaster of King Edward's School and some colleagues."

"He sounds perfect for us." Hawkins looked up from the paper he was looking over to see the opinions of the nurse and the other teacher, who nodded at him in agreement.

"Too perfect," the headmaster grunted.

"Oh, come now, Henry." Andrews stood up and exchanged papers with the headmaster. "I know you have to weigh each candidate carefully, but there's something to be said about too much suspicion."

"If he is so excellent, why is he applying for a position now?"

"Here. In his letter." Matron Redfern held up the two sheets she was inspecting. "He says that familial obligations prevented him from returning to King Edward's School by the start of the school year and he is now looking for a new, permanent position."

"Ah," Rocastle murmured as he scanned over the sheet he had acquired from Andrews. "Aha! He has no military experience. That is a must for this institution."

"I don't have military experience," remarked Hawkins.

Andrews piped up immediately. "Neither do I."

The headmaster pursed his lips. "A history teacher at our school must have it."

The maths teacher shook his head. "That's not a requirement. You know that. You're simply looking for a reason to say no."

The matron held up her papers again. "Look at the rest of his letter. _I understand that you are attempting to fill this position quickly and I expect that you would be hesitant to offer a permanent position to someone with little or no knowledge of their abilities or suitability. I am willing to move to your village and fill the post for three months, during which you may evaluate my performance and make your decision or locate a more suitable candidate for your school._ That is a very reasonable offer."

Rocastle snorted. "Too reasonable. He sounds desperate."

Andrews threw up his hands in frustration. "What could possibly be the matter?"

"Too fast, too talented, too accommodating, too perfect!" Rocastle paced around the room, his hands clasped behind his back, crumpling the paper he held. "Call it a soldier's intuition. When things are too perfect, it's a trap."

The maths teacher stared at him, dumbfounded. "A soldier's intuition?" he finally sputtered. "This is a school, Henry, not an army, and we are not at war. If I'm not mistaken, you seem to think that hiring this man will ruin Farringham. Be reasonable. The worst that could happen is that his credentials are falsified and you have to let him go, and the students learn nothing for a few weeks."

"Hire him just for the three months, and use the time to find a teacher that's flawed enough for your peace of mind." Rocastle glared at Hawkins for that jibe, and the languages teacher responded with a cheeky grin.

"You know," prodded Andrews, "if you sent off an express today, he might be here in as quickly as two days. Only two more days of lectures about the Crimean War."

Rocastle wagged a finger at the maths teacher. "Now, that is hardly fair."

"I really don't see your objection, Headmaster." Matron Redfern kept her tone neutral and reasonable. "Hiring this man would provide us with a teacher trained to teach history, which is what our boys need, and give you the time to find the right man to fill this post, if he doesn't meet your standards."

"All right! All right!" Rocastle strode around the room, retrieving John Smith's papers from the three faculty members. "I'll consider it. I will discuss this with Phillips, and we will send off an express today if we decide to hire him." Throwing the three of them stern looks, he fetched his books and disappeared into the corridor.

Silence settled as the three faculty members stared at the door for a moment. Matron Redfern clasped her hands together in front of her. "I feel very sorry for Mr. Smith."

"Why's that?" Hawkins brushed his sandy hair back as he leaned back in his chair.

The matron stepped to the cupboard to pour herself some tea. "The headmaster doesn't like being wrong. If he hires him, he'll run him through the wringer to find something that will prove he was right all along."

Hawkins shook his head. "I wouldn't worry. If Mr. Smith is half as good as his curriculum vitae claims, he's exactly what we need."

"If only Rocastle would recognise that." Andrews returned to his seat and picked up his book. "Ah, well. Time will tell."


	3. Mr Smith and Miss Jones

Martha wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, but her chills had nothing to do with the nip in the autumn air, and the warmth of her long wool coat could not comfort her. The screech of the dematerialising TARDIS faded away, leaving her standing in an alley in some town in England, with the Doctor five feet to her side, a battered trunk and two Gladstone bags piled between them. From here, she could see the entrance to a railway station, about five hundred feet away down the street.

Biting her lip, she glanced down at the trunk and bags, then surveyed the distance between them and the station. She'd dragged the trunk out of the TARDIS on her own, but there was no way that she could get it down the cobblestone street to the railway station in any reasonable time, especially with the two extra bags. And the Doctor wasn't going to be much help.

Circling around to stand in front of him, Martha looked him up and down, appraising his current state. He looked strange in his gray coat and scarf and black fedora, so unlike his usual garb, colourful in comparison. His complexion was ashen except for his swollen eyes, tinged with red, lingering evidence of the agony he had endured only a half hour ago. Staring blankly into the distance, he took no notice of her.

"Doctor?" she called softly, tugging on his sleeve. _No_, she chided herself. _Wrong name._ "Mr. Smith?" No response, so she tried a little louder and more aggressive. "Mr. Smith?" Still no answer. On her tiptoes, she called into his ear as she yanked on his arm, "Mr. Smith!"

Blinking once, he turned toward her, though his unfocused eyes weren't seeing her at all. "Mr. Smith! It's me. Martha. Your maid."

His eyes flicked about, as if he were trying to process what she was saying. A hint of a smile played at his lips for a moment before confusion clouded his face again. Martha decided to take that as a sign of recognition. "Mr. Smith, we need to get to the railway station. You've got to help me with the trunk." She spoke loudly and deliberately, as if she was teaching something to a slightly deaf child.

His lack of response drew a frustrated "Oonh!" from her and she stamped her foot, fists clenched. She caught his hand and pulled it down to the trunk and wrapped his fingers around the handle on its near end. She encircled his hand with both of hers. "Got that? You need to help me carry this. Can you help me carry it?" Raising a hand, she caressed his cheek; it was much warmer than his skin had ever felt, at those times when he'd grabbed her hand and urged her to run. With a gentle voice, she encouraged him, "You can do it. Just lift when I say so."

Taking one bag in her left hand, she tucked the other under the same arm, then moved to the other end of the trunk. The Doctor was still bent over, hand around his handle, staring at the ground. She bent and took a hold of the handle on her side, then, inhaling deep into her lungs, called with a firm voice, "Lift!" Her end rose, but the other remained on the ground.

"Mr. Smith! Lift!" The second attempt had the intended effect: the Doctor straightened, carrying his end of the trunk in his dangling hand. Since he was nearly a foot taller than her, between them the trunk slanted downwards and its contents slid towards Martha, placing most of the burden on her. She had to position her arm to brace under it, and she knew she wouldn't be able to hold it for very long. "Come on! Let's go!" She started walking, watching him. He stayed in place until the trunk pulled him forward, and he followed it like it was a frisky dog leading him on a leash.

By the time they made it into the station, Martha's arm was aching and it was a relief to drop the trunk and bags. The Doctor still held on to his handle, so his maid had to unwrap his fingers from it and ease that end of the trunk to the ground. "Okay. You stay here. I'm going to make sure everything's in order." As she pulled the papers out of her pocket, she noticed that two women in rich embroidered dresses standing nearby were eyeing her.

She stepped up to the ticketing window. "Excuse me. I want to make sure we're getting on the right train." She handed the tickets to the man seated behind the grating, who looked them over.

"Yes, you'll be heading to Norwich. That train will be boarding here in about half an hour, right out there. You've any luggage you'll want loaded?"

"Yes. A trunk."

"Bring it here then."

Martha spent the next five minutes dragging the trunk to the counter and getting it checked for loading. When she returned, the Doctor was still staring straight ahead, oblivious to his surroundings. She sighed. "It's about twenty minutes until we get to board the train. Then we'll be on our way to Norwich, and that should be a good long ride. Maybe you'll wake up a bit by then." She knew she was talking to fill the silence, to distract herself from thinking too much about what was happening.

"Excuse me." Martha turned to see one of the two women looking down her nose at her. "If I may ask, what's wrong with him?"

Martha was glad to have thought up an excuse for him beforehand. "Oh, he's taken some medication that leaves him dazed for a while. He's fine."

"Ah, I see. I must say, he might be not be paying much attention, but he is still your master. You should not be taking liberties with him just because you think he can't hear you. You will call him 'sir', and," she added with some asperity, "you will call me 'ma'am'."

Martha's first instinct was to respond in anger, but she realised she hadn't been playing her part, as a lowly servant to this gentleman. The woman was right. This was early twentieth-century England, September in 1913 according to the train tickets, and in order to fit in and stay with Mr. Smith, given her skin colour, Martha had been forced to adopt the role of his servant. She had to conceal the intelligence and confidence of her 2008 medical student self and feign ignorance and subservience to everyone. She needed to adjust her speech and attitude. How did they used to speak back then? Lots of "ma'am"s and "sir"s, complete deference, and saying as little as possible to their superiors, to not waste their time. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Please forgive me."

"Good. Mind your place. Your master will thank me for this." She nodded, then turned on her heel and strode off with a self-satisfied smirk.

Martha glanced around to see if anyone was watching. As the woman's companion was staring in her direction, the maid stepped behind the Doctor and shot a sarcastic, defiant sneer in their direction, then composed herself. Stepping back out in front of him, she turned to the Doctor and curtseyed to him. "I'm sorry, sir."

She looked up at the tall man. According to the TARDIS' information, of which there was little, he was now Mr. John Smith, a newly-appointed schoolteacher at a boys' school in Farringham, a village near Norwich. She didn't know much more than that, but she was certain he would, when he recovered from the harrowing process of becoming human. He'd said the TARDIS would take care of everything, and she trusted him. She'd just have to wait to see how things would play out. She moved to stand by his side.

Fidgeting a little, Martha longed to take a seat on one of the many benches in the station, but she spotted the two women still watching her with a supercilious air, and she decided that the effort wouldn't be worth their mockery. It would be hard enough to get the Doctor to move where she wanted him to go, and then, how to get him to sit without resorting to knocking him in the backs of his knees?

Fifteen minutes of people-watching and twiddling her fingers had passed when the train pulled into the station, its horn and rumble piercing her through. The knots of passengers began milling about, gathering their bags and preparing to board, but Martha didn't bother, figuring that the luggage needed to be loaded first and that she'd have plenty of time to grab the two small bags and push the Doctor towards the train. She hoped she could enlist the help of a conductor to get him seated.

"Martha?" The Doctor's soft, gentle voice was laden with confusion and uncertainty, so unlike his normal exuberant, confident timbre, and it wrenched Martha's heart.

She stepped in front of him and gazed up into his eyes, trying to diagnose his mental state. "Yes, sir? How are you feeling, sir?"

"You... you're Martha." His eyes roaming over her face, he was still barely seeing her, but he was starting to show some general awareness. A little colour had returned to his complexion, and perhaps his eyes were less puffy.

"Yes, sir. Good old Martha, right here, sir."

"Where am I?" His eyes wandered the station, periodically locking onto objects and people, but Martha could see in his expression only faint glimmers of recognition. He was having trouble piecing the scene together.

"At the railway station, sir. Waiting for the train."

He brightened a bit. "A train? That's good. Always wanted to drive one."

She arched an eyebrow at him, not sure if he was in earnest or had actually cracked a joke. "Well, sir, maybe we can convince the engineer to let you have a go." His lips curved into a contented, boyish smile, and she had to stifle a laugh. "It's almost time to board, sir, and then we can get you seated and you can rest."

"I... I'd like that. I..." He frowned. "I'm... I'm John. Aren't I?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. John Smith, you are, sir."

His mouth slightly open, she saw his tongue flick behind his teeth a couple of times. "I'm not... someone else?"

Martha's heart leapt into her throat, and she swallowed before she replied. "No, sir, you're not. Never you mind that. That's the draughts talking, sir."

"Oh. The medicines. Yes." He nodded. "They hurt."

Martha blinked back a tear. She had hoped that at least he wouldn't remember that ordeal. "Yes, sir, they did. But that's all done now, sir. It won't hurt again."

From outside on the platform, a man's voice crowed, "All aboard!"

"Sir? It's time to board the train." She picked up the bags and jerked her head toward the train. "Come along, sir." At least he was responding. He began walking in the direction everyone else was, and she fell in behind him. At times when the line came to a stop, she had to nudge him to start him moving again, but it was no great problem to slowly herd him onto the train. She found him a compartment, then, stowing the bags in the rack above, Martha finally closed the sliding door and plopped down in the seat across from him. "There, Mr. Smith. That wasn't so bad. We'll be on our way in no time, sir."

"Hmm? Oh yes." He smiled absently.

"Close your eyes, sir. You'll feel better with a little sleep."

"Ah, yes. Of course." But his eyes remained open, lost and dull. Martha decided it was not worth pushing further.

The ride was smoother than what Martha had expected from a turn-of-the-century steam locomotive, but the lack of bumpiness only made the monotony more unbearable. She couldn't see anyone from their closed compartment so she couldn't people-watch, and the scenery rushing past soon became boring. In the chaos of preparing for this adventure, she hadn't thought to pack a book, but she figured that as a servant, she'd stand out a bit if she were literate. She sighed and stared out of the window again, glancing back at the Doctor every so often. He sat still as a stone, staring at a spot off to her right.

Without anything else to do, she mused on her task ahead. The Doctor was recovering and considered himself to be Mr. Smith, and that was going according to plan. Hopefully, by the time train arrived in Norwich, he would be aware enough to take the lead, and he would take up his position at the Farringham School for Boys, with Martha as his servant. There, they would live as ordinary humans, among everyone else, waiting for the Family to live out their short lives and die off in three months.

The Family. Cunning, vicious, and persistent, they were hunting them down, and they'd caught the unique scent of the Doctor, the last of his people. Martha hadn't even gotten a glimpse of them when he'd grabbed her hand and they'd bolted into the TARDIS. The Family had pursued them through time as well as space, and this was his plan to flee them. The Doctor had turned himself into a human so that they couldn't track his Time Lord essence.

She shivered. She'd only once before seen the Doctor terrified, and that was when he couldn't stop a solar entity from taking over his mind. This time, he had been so scared of the Family, he'd chosen to endure the intense pain to transform himself into another species and taken everything that made him _him_ and stowed it away inside a pocket watch. Her imaginings of what this Family must be able to do unnerved her, and she forced her thoughts away from them.

The task that the Doctor had given her was to protect him, to help him survive as a human for three months while watching for signs that the Family had found him. This was going to be difficult, playing maidservant in a world that had only just discovered electricity and ran on coal. She wasn't even sure if she'd have to draw water from hand pumps and clean out chamber pots; did they have indoor plumbing at all? But she'd definitely have to set aside her twenty-first century sensibilities and endure the discrimination of class, race, and sex without complaint, as already demonstrated by the woman in the station. Everything about this was going to be tough. It had been less than two hours since they'd started on this path, but she already felt that the only thing keeping her going was the man she had to protect. His safety was paramount, and she could endure anything to keep him secure.

Martha's eyes fluttered open, gazing at the joint where the wall of the compartment met the ceiling. She had been fast asleep, who knew how long. Snapping her gaping mouth shut, she straightened herself in her seat.

"Ah, you're awake. I hope you had pleasant dreams." Mr. Smith's eyes were bright and kind.

Martha hoped she hadn't drooled all over herself. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir! Hardly proper of me."

He smiled and shook his head. "Oh, Martha, think nothing of it. You must be exhausted, what with this long journey and you taking care of me so well."

Now that he was alert and speaking normally, the maid noticed that the schoolteacher had a slow, formal drawl, so different from the quick, clipped accent she was used to. "Are you feeling better, sir?"

"Top hole. Though…" He gazed out of the window for a moment. "Do you ever get the feeling like you're forgetting something important? I feel like there's something I'm supposed to get back to." Tugging at his ear, he shook his head. "Can't be, though. Everything I own is in my bag and my trunk. I left my old life in Birmingham, and I'm starting a completely new journey here."

Martha nodded. _Yes, those were in the details the TARDIS left me. Birmingham, King Edward's School. He knows at least that much. He seems to think he's who he's supposed to be. Maybe this will all work out just fine._ Her voice shook with that thought. "It'll be splendid, sir. You'll love it, I'm sure."

He gazed at her with concern, one eyebrow cocked. "But you don't think you'll like it, eh, Martha?" He frowned, then patted his pockets. "You have my papers, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Right here, sir." She brought out the sheaf of papers and handed them to him. She waited as he stared at them in his hand, until she noticed the haze in his eyes. Waved a hand in front of his face to no avail, then called to him. "Mr. Smith? Are you all right, sir? Mr. Smith?" She tugged on his arm, and that seemed to wake him.

"What?" He looked up at her. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking."

Martha knew that he wasn't "just thinking". "What about, sir?"

"Oh, nothing important. Let me see here." As he began paging through the papers, Martha wondered if what he had been thinking about was truly not important, or if he had fallen back into his previous daze.

Mr. Smith pulled out a paper out of the stack. "Here. Yes. This school pays a lot less than King Edward's. A country school will always pay less than a school in town. Hm." Pulling out a pen, Mr. Smith unscrewed the cap and scribbled a few notes in the margin of the paper. "Yes, tight." Pursing his lips, he replaced the cap on the pen before continuing. He stared at her, his wide brown eyes solemn. "I'll be honest with you, Martha. I won't have much to spare. I really can't afford to keep you."

Martha's eyes widened with horror. She had to stay with him. There was no way she could protect him if she couldn't remain near. "Oh, sir! You can't…"

"However!" Interrupting her protest, he laid a comforting hand on her arm. "You've been ever so faithful and you mean a lot to me. I promise I will take care of you."

"You will, sir? I really can't leave you."

"Yes. I'll figure it out. I promise." He tapped the pen on his chin as he stared at the paper. "It might mean a tighter belt than I'm used to, but I'm sure I can make do. You'd think a younger son without much inheritance would have learned some frugality by now."

This was a lot more detail about his life than the TARDIS had given her, and she didn't know what to say. She had no idea what kind of economic situation he was supposed to be in, or even that his memory included an older brother. Was his subconscious mind constructing details to fill in the blanks? She didn't know, but she needed to learn to play along and keep him going. "You've always been frugal, sir."

He replaced the paper in the pile and, folding the sheaf, tucked it and the pen into his inner breast pocket, a gesture very familiar to his maid. "Well, my tastes are not expensive, but I've never been careful with my money. It's never too late to learn, is it now, Martha? We'll manage, you and I." He grinned with affection for his servant.

A knock drew their attention to the door, and Martha spied the women from the station. Mr. Smith rose to his feet and, fiddling awkwardly with the latch, slid the door open. "Good afternoon, ladies. Can I help you?"

Stepping into the cramped compartment, the woman who spoke to Martha earlier eyed her with contempt until the maid also rose in polite deference. Martha looked at Mr. Smith to see if he noticed, but he was busy smoothing his jacket.

"We just noticed you here and stopped in to see if you were feeling better. You looked rather ill in the station." Her accent dripped with upper class breeding.

"I am much better. Thank you for asking." Mr. Smith didn't seem quite comfortable with her, and had backed away a bit, one hand braced against the back of his seat. The compartment ceiling was low enough that he was hunched over to avoid bumping his head.

"So glad to hear it." Her tone did not betray any actual concern for his health. "Are you travelling all the way to Norwich today?"

"Yes. I am moving to a nearby village called Farringham. I've a post at the boys' school there."

"Oh, a schoolteacher." She didn't bother to hide her disappointment, and her inflection changed to boredom. "I'm quite sure you'll love it there. The country is beautiful."

"I expect I will. Thank you." If he had meant the phrase of gratitude to convey that the conversation was over, the woman didn't notice.

"I should tell you, however, that your servant is less than reliable." She glanced over Martha and wrinkled her nose. "Whilst you were under your medications, she was quite disrespectful."

Mr. Smith looked at Martha before replying. "Martha has always taken good care of me, and I have no issue with her behaviour."

"She is disgraceful. I should not trust her."

Bristling, Mr. Smith drew himself up to his full height, his hair brushing the ceiling, and stared down at the woman. "I trust Martha with my life. You may go now." Snorting softly, the woman cast one last mocking glance at Martha and withdrew with her friend. The schoolteacher shut the door firmly behind them.

As they resumed their seats, Martha hastened to explain. "You didn't have to do that, sir. She was right, you know. I knew you couldn't hear me and I was out of line, sir."

"Shush, Martha." He shrugged and leaned back. "That was presumptuous of her, telling me how I should treat you. And it doesn't bother me, not one jot. So you were a bit rude. That doesn't hurt anyone, and I certainly don't remember it. Just make sure that next time, no one else can hear you."

Martha hadn't expected this. Mr. Smith was a man of 1913. She thought he'd be just like the woman, concerned only with rank and appearance. She stared at her hands in her lap. "Thank you, sir. There won't be a next time, I promise."

"Oh, there will." Her head snapped up at the amusement in his voice. "We've known each other how long now? I know you. You're full of fire. It'll happen again." He laughed, and she cracked an embarrassed grin. Leaning toward her, he took her hand. "You see, I _will_ look after you, Martha. Just like you look after me."

Her eyes shone with appreciation. "Thank you, sir."

Mr. Smith laid her hand in her lap and patted it, then leaned back in his seat. Their eyes held each other's gaze for just a moment more, then they both fell silent, losing themselves in their own thoughts as the train rumbled on toward Norwich.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Just in case it's not clear, in this piece, Martha's thoughts about the Family mirror what she thought the Doctor was running from at the beginning of "Human Nature"/"Family of Blood". She (and the audience) do not find out why the Doctor ran from the Family until the very end of the episode (and I'm not even sure she ever found out the real reason).


	4. A Splendid Prospect

Prompt #90: Home

When the motor-car came to a stop in front of the school, the driver jumped out and circled around to open the door for the new schoolteacher. A tall man wearing a fedora, he cocked his head up to keep an eye on the edge of the cloth roof as he stepped out. He turned to fetch his personal bag on the seat, but the driver stopped him. "I'll get that, sir. You go on. The headmaster will be in his office."

"Good man, Ames. Thank you." He took a few steps towards the building, then stopped to get a good look at the school grounds. An old, worn complex, obviously a converted manor, it was nevertheless neatly kept: the lawns were carefully manicured and the main circular driveway was clear of weeds and debris, a British flag flapping on a pole in the grassy center. The military bent of the school was evident, as through an archway, he could see a wide lawn with targets set up for shooting practice in the distance. The Farringham School for Boys had a fine reputation, and this appointment was going to be a good opportunity for him.

"Come, Martha. We mustn't keep the headmaster waiting," he called without looking back, and strode towards the entrance of the school.

"Yes, Mr. Smith. Coming, sir." Mr. Smith's dark-skinned maid had climbed out of the motor-car after the footman had retrieved the bags in the passenger compartment. She straightened and dusted off her coat, then trotted to catch up to her master, staying respectfully behind him as they entered.

The interior of the school was far richer than the outside, its marble floors, brass fixtures, and mahogany paneling gleaming, even with its daily trample of schoolboys. Martha spotted a pair of maids scrubbing the floor in a corridor off the main hallway and sighed inwardly; she expected she would be them tomorrow. She reminded herself that this wasn't permanent, and that she was doing this for a very good reason.

After a polite inquiry, a boy escorted the newcomers to the headmaster's office. Mr. Smith knocked lightly on the door and was beckoned in by a gruff male voice.

"Headmaster Rocastle?" Mr. Smith's tone was tentative as he pushed open the door.

"Ah, yes. You must be Mr. Smith. Welcome to Farringham." The headmaster rose from his chair behind the desk and extended his hand in greeting. Removing his hat, Mr. Smith stepped forward and gripped his hand firmly, smiling politely. Martha noticed that Mr. Rocastle, a stern but handsome man in his early fifties, did not return that smile. She saw his eyes flick over Mr. Smith, critically appraising the younger man's appearance - personal grooming, style of traveling coat he wore, even the length of his sleeves - then turned their attention to her for a momentary appraisal. Though his expression did not change, she knew that she hadn't passed his standards. "Please sit down."

Mr. Smith seated himself in one of the chairs in front of the desk. Martha knew she should remain standing near the door. "Thank you for sending your car to bring us from the railway station, headmaster. It was a luxury that I did not expect."

"There was no reason for you to hire a coach here. You made good time. You should have plenty of time to situate yourself before the evening meal. Ames will have your trunks taken to your apartments." The headmaster picked up a paper from his desk and glanced at it. "Your credentials are impeccable. Honors at the University of Birmingham. A fine record at King Edward's School. Why did you decide to come to this tiny village?"

Mr. Smith stuttered a bit. "Oh, uh, I decided I had enough of the city. A smaller town and a good school. With a good history curriculum and a strong military tradition."

The headmaster nodded and put down the paper. "The school is delighted to have you, Mr. Smith. You will, of course, be expected to uphold the credit and reputation of this institution. You should start first with your appearance." His eyes fixed on Mr. Smith's hair, the top of which was long and flyaway.

Mr. Smith's voice squeaked in confusion. "I'm sorry?" He followed Mr. Rocastle's eyes and clapped his hand to his crown to feel the state of his hair. "Oh! It must be the travelling, sir. I assure you, my hair does not normally stand on end." Martha kept her face carefully neutral, though her eyes danced with laughter.

"See that it doesn't. So, who is this servant you have brought with you?" Again, the disdainful eyes raked across Martha.

Mr. Smith rose to his feet. "This is Martha. She's served my family for years, and she's my responsibility now. I had hoped to find her a position here at the school. She is a hard worker and most faithful." Martha said nothing, but tried her best to look eager and dependable. She needed to stay close to Mr. Smith, and she could only do that by working at the school.

"We have all the servants we need already, Mr. Smith."

"Could there be room for just one more, please, sir? She has been faithful to my family for years, but I cannot afford to keep a personal servant."

Mr. Rocastle set his jaw. It was obvious to Martha that he didn't care one jot about her, but he wanted to keep his new schoolteacher happy. "I cannot afford another servant, but I can afford half a servant. If you can pay for the rest of her keep, she can be your personal servant and spend the rest of her time serving the school."

"Yes, sir, I can do that. Thank you, sir." Mr. Smith bowed.

In her relief, Martha blurted, "Thank you very much, sir!"

The headmaster glared at her in surprise. "Mr. Smith. You will keep your servant under control."

"Yes, sir." He shot a reprimanding glance at Martha, and she stepped back, bowing her head contritely. She kept her silence, but the thoughts running through her head were less than polite.

"You should go set yourself up. And have one of the boys show her to the servants' quarters. She'll have a bed and uniform there. Welcome to Farringham, Mr. Smith." The two men shook hands, and Martha followed Mr. Smith out into the hallway.

"There. That wasn't bad." Mr. Smith deposited his hat back on his head and smiled warmly at Martha. "I told you I would look out for you. Shall we go find my apartments?"

. _ . _ . _ . _ .

The school was a maze of twisting corridors and steep staircases, but they found Mr. Smith's apartments with the help of one of the maids, a girl named Jenny. They consisted of a large office, with a sleeping area and a fine fireplace, and a book room. His trunk and bags were piled near the door.

"This looks too grand for me." Stooping to pick up his bag, he strode over to the window. "This prospect is splendid. I can see for miles from here. And the sky! At night, I am sure, the stars will be brilliant."

Martha dragged the trunk across the room to the desk near the window. She tried to pop open the main clasp, but it was locked. "May I have the key to your trunk, sir?" When he didn't answer her, she looked up at him. He was staring out of the window at the sky, seemingly lost in a daydream. She bit her lip. They had only been travelling for less than a day now, since he'd chosen to change and hide, and he already did this a lot, got lost within himself. Was he remembering? Was he missing the man he had been? She didn't know: when she had asked him what he was dreaming about, either he didn't know or he wasn't sharing it with her.

She went to his side and asked him quietly, "Mr. Smith?"

"Oh. Yes?" He was confused.

"May I have the key to your trunk, sir?"

"Oh, certainly!" He unbuttoned his coat, then patted the pockets of his jacket, then waistcoat, then trousers. "Ah, here it is." He fished it out of his trouser pocket and handed it to her. As she returned to the trunk, he removed his coat and hat and hung them on the stand near the door. He then pulled out his fob watch, unclipped the chain, and dropped it on the nearest surface, which happened to be a bookshelf in the book room.

Martha immediately darted over and picked it up. "Oh, sir, let's put that watch in a safe place. How about on the mantle?" She crossed over to the fireplace to choose a place for it.

"Hm? What watch?" His eyes were unfocused as he looked at her, and after blinking a few times, he shook his head and began unpacking his bag.

Mr. Smith didn't have many belongings and it didn't take the pair of them very long to unpack everything and arrange the room. They stood back and surveyed their handiwork.

"Excellent! This is everything I could want. It already feels more like home than anywhere I have ever been. This will be a splendid new life for me." His eyes shone with a contentment that Martha had never seen before.

He circled around the desk and picked up a piece of paper. "Oh, and my class schedule is here. Three classes tomorrow. I shall have my evening filled, preparing for them." He placed it back on the desk and tapped it twice. "I'll be wanting my breakfast and my tea here, and you'll need to tidy up every day, and laundry, of course. And then you'll have your duties to the school. You should probably get yourself situated now. Thank you, Martha."

"You're welcome, sir." She curtsied but before she left the room, she looked back at Mr. Smith, who had picked up a book and had already forgotten she was there. She leaned against the door and contemplated her future of scrubbing floors, serving arrogant boys, and protecting Mr. Smith. This wasn't going to be a good time for her. He had found his home, his happiness, but it all depended on her.

She could do this; she could and would do anything for him. He had to hide for three months, and at the end of those three months, she would tell Mr. Smith to open the watch. The Doctor would return and she would be free. Her eyes shining with the memory of the Doctor, she closed Mr. Smith's door and headed downstairs to her new home.


	5. Four O'Clock in Early September

**Author's Note**: Oblique references to _Circular Time: Autumn_

* * *

If one pays close enough attention to the way a writer words his essays, one can tell quite a lot about his personality. John had only been teaching at this school for four days now, and he thought he had a pretty good grasp on a couple of the boys in his classes. Take Hutchinson, for example. His style was disdainful and mocking, often pretentious, as if he felt that the subject matter - the wars in the Americas in the previous century - were not worth his time; he was probably quite the bully in his house.

John tapped three paragraphs with his thumb. _Except these._ The three paragraphs were clever and insightful, not just rephrasings of the readings. The style was not like anyone else's in that class. So whose? He picked up his pen then paused, tapping the handle against his lips. _A younger housemate. Someone easily forced into doing his work for him._ It had to be. He just needed to figure out which one; this unknown boy was brilliant and worth cultivating.

Screwing the cap back on, he set the pen down, then stretched his back. He'd been at this too long, since his last class had ended, and he really needed to take a walk. It would serve the double purpose of giving him more opportunity to memorise the layout of the manor house that made up the main part of the school. He still wasn't used to it, and had already spent an hour prowling the halls after getting lost after dinner two days ago.

Today's circuit would be the exploration of the second floor. One wing was dubbed Lloyd House and was home to half of the student population; the other half lived in a detached building on the grounds, called Innes House. The boys were fiercely loyal to their houses, and they provided some friendly rivalry in academic and sporting pursuits. The rest of the second floor was devoted to staff offices, except for the music room, which was the largest chamber on the level. John strolled around both wings, noting the locations of the stairs with respect to prominent landmarks in each of the hallways. One of the landings had a wide window and, pausing to gaze out at the grounds, John noticed that a group of boys was out on the lawn, setting up a game of cricket. He smiled; he used to love cricket, when he was younger.

Without consciously making a decision to do so, John found himself strolling out of the school to watch the impromptu cricket game as the bells in the chapel struck four o'clock. The early September sun cast long shadows across the lawn, reminding him that the daylight would be dying soon, and returning again, weak and cool, in another fourteen hours, the cycle of the beginning of autumn. It was paralleled by the cricket game he was watching, really. There weren't enough boys for two teams, so two boys were the batsmen, and the rest were fielding. When a batsman was dismissed, one of the fielders replaced him as batsman and the boy took his place on the field. It was a grand circular dance, with boys leaving and returning, like the light of the sun every day. The idea of repeated renewal appealed to him, as opposed to a single game or day, occurring once, a linear event, with a single beginning and a single, definite end.

John blinked. When had his simple, pragmatic self ever turned so philosophical? For a moment, his lips curved in self-mockery, and he idly wondered where he got such strange notions. Silly things.

Standing far enough away from the cricket field that the boys knew that he wasn't there to oversee their game or command them to return to their houses, he watched them play. The shouts of the boys, the _crack!_ of the bat on the ball, and the frantic running after the bright red ball or between the wickets both entertained and soothed him. They were at their best here, competing with their peers freely, unfettered by the demands of education and discipline, unconcerned with time wasted or duties being shirked. Those could wait.

"Ah, cricket! A fine sport for young gentlemen!"

John turned to see another teacher approaching from behind him, a shorter, somewhat rotund man with peppered hair. "Ah, good afternoon, Mr. -" His memory failed him and he coloured. He only remembered that this was the maths teacher.

The older man smiled. "Andrews. George Andrews." Coming abreast of John, he clapped him on the back companionably. "No worries, Mr. Smith. Too many new names and faces to commit to memory, I daresay. I'm not offended, not in the slightest. You may call me George."

John smiled in relief and nodded. "George. I'm John."

George jerked his head towards the pitch. "Do you play? There's a village team, always looking for players."

John shook his head. "Oh, I love the game, but I haven't played in such a long time, since I was a young man. Feels like it's been centuries."

The maths teacher stepped back and looked him up and down. "You're still a young man, and you've a good build for the sport. Not like some of us." He patted his round midriff with both hands. "You should have a go at it, for the rest of the season." He leaned in close and whispered. "If it's any consolation, they aren't very good, so they'd welcome you even if you didn't know which end of the bat to hold."

John held his hands up in front of him and shook his head. "Oh, I couldn't. I'd be rubbish. And I don't know anyone here yet." He could not imagine walking up to a bunch of strangers and asking to join their cricket club.

George waved dismissively. "Oh, go on! You live here now, part of the community. One day, you're going to move out of the bachelor faculty apartments into the town and you'll have to meet people. What better way than in a sporting club, where you just have to throw a ball around and not have to actually _talk_ to anyone?" He laughed and elbowed John. "Eh?"

Crossing his arms, John smiled. "I'll consider it. I'm still getting used to it here, and there's not much time left in the season. Perhaps next year. Cricket always comes back around again."

"Fair enough. Though..." The shorter man tapped his chin. "We could also use another teacher to manage recreation here. You know, organizing games between the houses, coaching duties. Great way to get to know both the teachers and the students."

John wagged a finger at George. "Now that, that sounds far more appealing. Working with the boys and a bit of fresh air..."

He never got to finish his thought as a well-hit ball beaned one of the fielders on the forehead and the boy staggered. Both the cricket players and the two teachers rushed over to him, and the students stood back to let the adults examine their companion.

The men stood on either side of the student. "Oh, Johnson, you're going to have a nasty bruise there," George remarked absently, as he checked the boy's eyes. "Look at me. Yes, that's it."

John turned to one of the few boys whose names he remembered. "Parker, run to the infirmary and tell the nurse to prepare. We'll bring him there." The boy immediately sprinted off.

"Yes." The maths teacher nodded at John. "To the nurse, unless you know more about this kind of thing than I do."

"Not at all. Here, Johnson, is it? Let me. Just relax." John gathered the boy into his arms and carefully lifted him, making sure not to jostle his head. "Please lead on. I'm not sure where the infirmary is."

George led John into the school building, followed by a handful of the students; the others had returned to what was left of their abandoned game. The infirmary was on the ground floor, in what probably had once been a very large sitting room in a wing on the opposite end of the building from the headmaster's office. It consisted of four unoccupied beds, the nurse's desk, and a few cabinets of supplies. Near one of the beds, a woman in a nurse's dress with her light brown hair arranged in a neat bun was turning down one of the beds.

Calling to John, she gestured at the bed. "Lay him here, if you please." John lowered him onto the bed, and the nurse cradled the boy's head to make sure it was gently positioned on the pillow. "Thank you." As John pulled the blankets up to cover the boy's torso, the nurse examined her charge, and he stepped back to get out of the way.

"Now, what exactly happened?" The nurse placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and shushed him. "You should rest yourself. Mr. Andrews can tell me."

"A cricket ball. Hit well off the bat." George stepped forward and pointed at Johnson's forehead. "Right here. You can see, it's starting to colour already."

"Yes, I see." She checked the boy's eyes, then asked him a few simple questions, which he answered with a quiet voice. "I don't think you have a concussion, but I'd like to keep you here for the evening to make sure. I'll get you a bit of ice to try to keep the swelling down." She turned to his friends. "I'll have to ask you to clear off for a while, let him rest. You can come back after dinner, if you like, and please bring him some of his schoolbooks." The boys thanked her and left the infirmary.

The nurse nodded at John. "Thank you for bringing him in. You're the new history teacher, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. John Smith." He extended his hand in greeting and she shook it with a formal smile.

"Matron Redfern. I run the infirmary here at Farringham."

"She also plays mother to all of our boys," George cut in. "She keeps them in line and gives them the love they need to grow and develop. I don't know what we'd do without her, John."

Embarrassed, she smiled and looked away. "Oh, you make me sound so grand! I assure you, I do nothing more than tend colds and bandage cricket mishaps."

"Nonsense," replied John. "Every school needs a mother's touch, for the boys to grow into fine men. I look forward to working with you, Matron Redfern." He nodded gallantly.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith. I look forward to working with you, too. But for now," she inclined her head at the boy in the bed, "Johnson does need his rest. I must ask you and Mr. Andrews to please leave us."

"Oh, certainly. Good afternoon." The two men nodded at the Matron and stepped out, bidding each other goodbye, as George was heading for his home in the village.

Climbing the stairs to his apartments, John reflected on the afternoon, having met another faculty member and gotten to know another better (though he really should have remembered George's name from earlier), become more familiar with the layout of the school, and found an extracurricular activity to get involved in. Only a few days ago, he had been apprehensive about this appointment, a new life in a strange village, meeting new colleagues and making friends, creating a home for himself. The idea of a complete change in circumstance had scared him, but now that he was here, the situation was oddly familiar and he found that he was enjoying not only getting to know the school and its people, but also the process of discovery.

On the third floor landing, he paused at the window, as he had done not long before. There were a couple of boys left on the cricket pitch, practising their bowling. Their game was all but forgotten, the cyclic rhythm of its innings interrupted by the injury of one of their companions. Of course, all things must end, but John felt a pang of sadness at the termination of the game. Pressing his lips in a thin line, he glanced one last time at the boys on the lawn, then resumed the climb to his study.


	6. Lessons in History

Prompt #34: Not Enough

It amazed Martha how dirty a room could get in just one day. Her duties as Mr. Smith's maid were the same every day: bring him breakfast, set out his clothing, clean up his apartments (an office with a bed and a book room) once he left to teach his classes, bring him his tea in the afternoon, clean up his tea things, and turn down the bed and build up the fireplace in the evenings. And then once a week, do his laundry. It didn't sound like much when she signed up for it, because how much of a mess could one bachelor teacher make? Apparently quite a bit. She didn't realise he would be a product of his time and circumstances, the younger son of a genteel family, used to having servants and not noticing how much work he might be creating for her. He cared not if he scattered his papers about or left half of his hundreds of books piled on the table. He was absent-minded, which meant she might find a half-eaten apple drying out on a bottom shelf of the book room, and he was clumsy, as evidenced by the ink spill across the mahogany desk that she was currently scrubbing. To top it off, the infuriating man had left the ink to dry on the desk for a couple of hours before telling her. This was only the fifth day of her three-month tenure of serving as his maid. Her duties serving the school required more menial work and she knew she was lucky to have part of the day for the light work of serving Mr. Smith, but she swore, once the three months were over, she was going to let him have it.

The soapy water in her small pail was nearly black, so, grabbing it, she headed downstairs to the kitchens to refresh it. Upon returning, she was surprised to find the door to Mr. Smith's office wide open. The voices of two men drifted into the hallway.

"No, I do not see that any of these books are written in Latin." That was Mr. Smith's familiar tenor voice, speaking in a slow, pleasant, formal accent that Martha still found strange to her ears. "I daresay that it has been many decades, possibly centuries, since history lessons were conducted in Latin, anywhere in the kingdom."

"Oh, I'm not looking to teach in Latin." Martha didn't recognise the second speaker; she had so far met only two of the school's other teachers. "I believe that if a student can read something important in Latin, if he can engage with the subject matter, he will find the language itself will be learned much more easily. Much better than simply memorising words and tenses." _Must be the languages teacher_, she thought. She had not even seen him yet, as far as she knew.

"That is a fascinating concept, Hawkins. Using one subject to teach another. I should expect that the pupil, whilst reading in Latin, shall also find it easier to learn the history."

Although she was supposed to be cleaning the ink splotch, Martha knew what she'd be expected to do, with a guest in the room, and, depositing her soapy pail just outside the history teacher's door, she turned to run back downstairs.

Martha returned to Mr. Smith's room in ten minutes, carrying tea for two on a tray. Balancing it all on one hand, she knocked on the open door.

Standing in the book room with the other teacher, Mr. Smith turned towards her. "Come in." Seeing the tea things, he smiled approvingly. "Splendid, Martha! Care for some tea, Hawkins?" He nodded at his maid and his eyes flicked at the small table near the fireplace, where she was to deposit the tray.

"Yes, please. Thank you." Mr. Hawkins was a younger man with short sandy hair, a wide, freckled face, and enthusiastic gray eyes. Like Mr. Smith and all the other teachers at the Farringham School for Boys, he wore black academic robes over his suit. Mr. Smith motioned his fellow faculty member to one of the nearby chairs, then, after Mr. Hawkins had sat down, took his own seat on the other side of the table. Martha began pouring the tea as the men selected pastries.

"Please excuse the use of this awkward table. I had a bit of an accident with the inkwell this morning and my desk is currently quite sopping." Though embarrassed, Mr. Smith grinned at the humor of the situation.

"This is perfectly adequate." As Martha retrieved the pail and returned to scrubbing the ink stain, Mr. Hawkins resumed the interrupted conversation. "So, do you think that we could introduce some history readings in Latin?"

"I don't see why not," Mr. Smith replied after swallowing a bite of scone. Though I will have to beg your help. I don't know if I could write essays in proper Latin."

"I can certainly proofread your work. How much Latin do you know?"

Mr. Smith didn't answer right away, and the pause in the conversation made Martha look up at him. Teacup halfway to his mouth, he was staring at nothing, confusion on his face. "I don't rightly know."

Mr. Hawkins gave a short laugh. "Well, you must have studied some."

"Yes, I'm sure I did." Mr. Smith had that look on his face that Martha had seen far too many times in the last few days, when he started trying to remember something and got lost within himself. However, before Martha decided to try to help Mr. Smith, Mr. Hawkins spoke again.

Martha understood some of what he said only because of the number of Latin terms she'd had to learn in medical school, and she realised that with Mr. Smith hidden the way he was, the TARDIS' telepathic translator must not be working for her. Mr. Smith immediately answered, and while Martha continued her scrubbing, the two men shared a couple of minutes' conversation before returning to English.

Mr. Hawkins was wide-eyed in amazement. "Your Latin is impeccable! I've not heard such perfect grammar since I last spoke with my professor at university."

Mr. Smith seemed pleased, if still a bit confused. "I suppose I did study some."

"Such modesty! Your only true difficulty is pronunciation. With the strange way you pronounce the letters, I had some problems understanding you."

"Well." Mr. Smith drawled the word, then the next sentences burst from him. "Phonemes will shift, over the years, between groups of people, even due to geographical barriers. A language can sound completely different in just a century." The speed of his words and the shift in accent made Martha freeze her work in concern, and she dropped her rag and wiped her hands on her skirt. "Spoke like this with Pliny the Elder. Well, he was just Pliny at the time; his nephew hadn't been born yet."

Martha noted Mr. Hawkins' confusion as she darted over to the two men. "Mr. Smith, sir, shall I refresh your tea?" She distracted both men with the process of topping off their cups.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Martha." His speech was back to schoolteacher-normal.

Mr. Hawkins had obviously decided to dismiss the strange episode. "You have the most interesting sense of humor, Smith. I think, however, as long as we keep you to the writing and away from the speaking, there shouldn't be any problems. If you are willing, let us toast to our success!" They clinked teacups together and sipped. "I must say, you are a breath of fresh air after Davenport. He wouldn't even entertain the idea that there could be other methods of teaching."

Martha returned to the ink spill as Mr. Smith replied. "One must keep an open mind. We are shaping a whole new generation of fine young men, after all."

"Exactly! Farringham is fantastically lucky to have got you, Smith. With Davenport suddenly leaving less than a month into the school year, we had thought all the talented teachers to be employed and that we would only have the unemployable as applicants. And to have you apply and arrive at the school only three days after we'd advertised the position!" He leaned forward over the table. "If I may ask, how did you come to be available for employment at such an odd time?"

Continuing to scrub, Martha glanced up at Mr. Smith, and she could see the confusion setting in again. What was wrong? The TARDIS had given him an identity, as an experienced boys' school teacher. Why couldn't he answer such a simple question? Then it hit her: he had an identity, but no life, no history, no memory. As a person, from birth until seven days ago, Mr. Smith was a blank slate except for a few fabricated "facts." He wouldn't be able to answer this question, and she hoped she could creditably fill in the holes.

"Oh, Mr. Smith," she interjected as she dropped the rag and bustled over to the table. "I'm sorry! You told me to remind you to write to your brother once you settled in here." She bobbed a curtsey to Mr. Hawkins. "You see, sir, his brother had taken ill during the summer. Almost died, he did, and Mr. Smith had to return to Nottingham to look after him. He got better, but too slow for Mr. Smith to return to his old school." She glanced at Mr. Smith and she could actually see, in his expression, his mind filling in the flesh around the skeleton of Martha's invention.

"Yes, this posting came at just the right time for me. Another two months without income and I would have had to rely on Tom's kindness. Quite embarrassing at this time of life. I certainly would not have been able to keep Martha." He smiled up at her, and she curtseyed and returned to her work.

"Well, as I said, we are lucky to have you. I think this project will turn out very well." Mr. Hawkins stood and bowed. "Thank you for the tea. Let us start working on this next week, shall we?"

Mr. Smith stood up as well. "Yes. I am looking forward to it, Hawkins." They shook hands, and Mr. Hawkins took his leave.

As Martha finished removing the ink spot from the desk's surface, Mr. Smith gathered his lecture notes and textbooks for his next class, humming idly to himself. When he finally left, Martha plopped down in the desk chair and sighed loudly. There was no way Mr. Smith could keep up this charade, if he was unable to fabricate the answers to personal questions on the fly. Someone would eventually notice that he didn't seem to know anything about himself, and even if they couldn't uncover the truth about him, they could investigate him, maybe discover that there never was a John Smith who graduated from the University of Birmingham and taught at King Edward's School. Or they might simply toss him into an asylum.

Martha yanked open the top drawer of the desk and pulled out some paper, then wet a pen with ink. If he couldn't create his own life, she could. At least the basics. Then she'd have a consistent story to use when he got into trouble. She couldn't watch him all the time, but she'd be ready when she could, and perhaps, when they were alone together, she could seed him with bits and pieces that he could work with. Scribbling quickly, she spent the next fifteen minutes creating an outline, inventing friends, noting down events - the biography of John Smith. When she'd used all the time she could spare from her duties, she hid it in a place away from everyone's eyes: behind his bed, a place only a maid would look. She'd return to it later, when she could. The Doctor had charged her with protecting him, and she was finding that the job required far more resourcefulness and foresight than she'd expected. But she was learning, and she wouldn't fail him.


	7. Laundry Day

Another drabble.

Prompt #19: White

* * *

The maid swiped a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, soap dripping down her cheek. She scrubbed the shirt down the washboard five more times before dunking it in the pail of clean water with the others. Swish, squeeze, empty, and pump more icy water. Repeat, at least three more times. On the last rinse, a cupful of bluing. Mr. Smith would get an earful from the headmaster if his shirts weren't shining white.

The week's laundry took her five hours. Martha vowed to never again complain about the laundromat a block away from her apartment.


	8. A Bowl of Fruit

**Author's Note**:

This is a drabble.

For this to make any sense, you need to be familiar with the full recording of the Doctor's instructions to Martha in "Human Nature," not just the one shown in the episode. You can find it on YouTube.

Prompt #39: Taste

* * *

Duster in hand, Martha pushed the door open just as Mr. Smith reached into the bowl and selected a fruit.

"Oh! Sir! Let me take that for you!"

Mr. Smith stared at her. "Whatever for, Martha?"

"You don't like pears. You told me to never let you eat one."

"When did I do that? I love pears. This harvest has been splendid. Thank you for bringing them."

"No! Don't!" But she was too late. He bit into the juicy green fruit, smiled, and toasted her with it.

Martha sighed, wincing to herself. _He's going to hate me in two months_.


	9. A Dreamer and a Fantasist

Pulling his dressing gown close around himself, John tied the sash as he sauntered toward the window of his study. Some days, he mused, it was more difficult to wake up than others, and today was one of those days, one where he wished he could have slept just a little bit longer, so that he could have seen the end of his dream. But it was not to be. He had always been an early riser, and the sunlight in his room, even the weak, cold October haze, never failed to drag him from his bed.

As he thought about it, however, it hadn't been the light that woke him. It had been the dream. That was a common occurrence, his dreams startling him awake, almost as if he were trying to flee from them. But they were most fantastical, and he realised this most recent one was starting to fade away like dreams always do. Hopping over to his desk, he slid into the chair and pulled a leather-bound journal out of a drawer. He turned to the first empty page and, grabbing his pen, he began scribbling down the words and images in his mind before they fled, without concern for narrative, legibility, or even coherence. He had found that the simple act of recording his dreams cemented them in his memory.

Some time later, a knock at his door roused him from his almost trance-like state, and he called, "Enter," without looking up. He continued to write as the door was pushed opened by a dark-skinned maid carrying a tray with his breakfast.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith," greeted the maid as she crossed the room and set the tray on the corner of the desk.

John looked up from his journal and glanced at her and nodded. "Ah, good morning, Martha." He scratched a few more strokes onto the paper, then laid the pen down. As the maid turned to the bed to start making it up, he moved the journal aside and, standing up, brought the tray in front of him, then returned to his seat. "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome, sir. Had a restful night, sir?"

He began to spread strawberry jam on a slab of toast as he answered her. "Same as ever, really. I suppose yes, as I'm rarely tired during the day." He took a bite before pouring himself a cup of tea.

The maid had straightened the sheets and blankets and was now tucking the ends under the mattress. "Dreams wake you - unh! - they wake you up again, sir?"

"Yes. Yes," he replied, his thoughts drifting as he leaned back in his chair, warming his hands on the cup. The dream still teased his mind and he tried to capture just a little bit more of it.

"My mother, she always said a mug of warm milk at bedtime will chase the bad dreams away."

"Oh, but they're not nightmares. They're... exciting! Adventures!" John turned to her with a concerned look. "Do the ones I've told you scare you, Martha? Are they nightmares to you?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Oh, no, sir. You just seem worried about them. I thought they were bad dreams."

"Not at all. They're fascinating. This last one, last night..." Setting the teacup on its saucer, he started on his eggs as he spoke. "I... well, I should say, the Doctor, the traveller, but I suppose it really was me... I must have been in China, in the Orient, for I was in a strange land, an opium den, I think, being offered the drug of my choice. I don't know why I was there, for I refused them all. I even tried to stop them from giving them to others, though one, a young lady, sampled the drug and floated away on the wind." He frowned. "There must be a moral in that somewhere.

"But then, robbers jumped out of the shadows and stole something from me, and I chased them into a huge cave filled with floating boxes, as far as I could see. I jumped from one box to another, and... there were people in the boxes. And cats! Cats in boxes!" He laughed a bit before continuing. "You won't believe this part. One of them, one of the cats, she was wearing a dress and she grabbed my arm and it made me angry, and I woke up! I never did catch the robbers or get back what they took." The thought saddened him more than he thought a dream could. Whatever it had been, it was so important, so precious to him.

He shook his head as he picked up his toast again. "These dreams. After I have them, I always feel that something is just beyond my grasp, something I really should know. Like I'm failing to remember something I ought." He nibbled idly on the bread.

Martha, listening intently, had paused her work and was staring at John with a slight frown, her mouth agape. Noticing this as he looked up, he asked, "Is something wrong, Martha?"

She straightened with a jerk. "Oh, no! I'm fine, sir." She busied herself with the bedcovers.

"That dream, it didn't disturb you, I hope?" Finishing the last of his toast, he thumbed his fork before taking it in his hand.

"No, sir. Not at all." She moved to the wardrobe to select his clothing for the day.

As he ate his breakfast, John slid the journal nearer and flipped through it, glancing at a couple of pages. "You know, I wonder…" Spinning his fork in his hand, he tapped on a page with the handle. "If I were to expand on these, add a bit here and there, to flesh out the narrative, I could write these as fictions. Not this last one, of course; it was too incomplete, too fragmented. But some of these longer dreams, they could serve." He righted the fork and cut another chunk of egg. "This one here, for example: in the far, far future, watching the end of the Earth from a sailing ship in space. They'd be nothing much, really - adventures, boys' stories in the future and the past - but I flatter myself to think they'd be akin to the stories of Mr. Wells." He paused, staring at the journal, his next bite halfway to his mouth. "I wonder, where does he get his ideas? Does he dream like I do? Whatever his inspiration, it must be extraordinary." Continuing his meal, he turned a few more pages.

Martha returned with an armful of clothing and laid them out on the bed. "Oh, no, sir, you mustn't do that."

Surprised, John questioned his maid with polite curiosity. "Why do you think so, Martha?"

Alarmed, she stuttered a bit. "They, er, they're just stories. Silly tales, not worth your mind, sir. What would the headmaster think of you writing them?"

John smiled at the maid with tender affection. "You are always so kind, looking out for me, Martha. But I assure you, even if I could get them published, which is highly unlikely, there is little chance they will attract any attention. And if they do, the credit of being a successful author only enhances the reputation of a teacher, even if he only creates silly boys' tales. Do not worry yourself. There's truly little chance that I will actually put pen to paper."

"Very good, sir." Martha paused, her eyes glancing about the room unfocused as if she were making a decision. Her voice was tentative as she resumed speaking. "Though, I was thinking, sir, maybe your dreams mean something? Like that doctor says. You know, that one in Vienna. He says dreams come from what you're feeling deep down."

The teacher stared at the maid, astonished. "Dr. Freud? Now where would you have heard of something like that?"

She shrugged. "Oh, you know, I hear things. People talk, and don't mind old Martha, sir."

He inhaled sharply as he realised he hadn't thought of that before. "I suppose you must do."

"It was that teacher, back at King Edward's School. The science teacher." Martha busied herself with straightening the teacher's desk as she spoke, but watched John out of the corner of her eye.

For a moment, John could not remember who she was talking about, but then an indistinct image of a man formed in his mind. _Ah, yes, him_, he thought, then paid him no mind. The man was someone he'd almost forgotten. That John remembered was enough for him; he'd learned that trying to remember more was rarely worth the effort. "Oh, yes, I know, the science teacher. Can't remember his name, for the life of me."

Martha continued talking as she worked. "Mr. Hall, sir. He talked about the dream doctor once. Said dreams are symbols, that they tell you what your mind is thinking beneath it all. You just have to figure out what it's saying."

"Hm. You may have a point there. Let's see. An opium den where I'm not taking what's offered? Maybe life is giving me something dangerous and seductive and I need to stay away? What could that be?" He dropped his napkin on the tray as he sipped the last of his tea.

"Oh, I don't know, sir. He said the dreams are hard to figure out, that the symbols are not what you think they are." Martha motioned at the breakfast tray. "May I take these, sir?"

John nodded. "Oh yes, but leave the fruit, please. Well, it's something to think about, in any case. I should see if Mr. Philips has any books by Dr. Freud. At the very least, it will be a fascinating read."

Piling the dishes onto the tray and placing the apples on the desk, Martha hid her expression of devious satisfaction from Mr. Smith. She had again successfully deflected him from thinking too hard about the true origins of his dreams, and the distraction this time seemed to be complex enough to hold him at least for a while; she knew that Freud's methods both took a long time to produce results and were unlikely to reveal anything of significance. She didn't know if her efforts were truly necessary, if she needed to prevent Mr. Smith's questioning of his vivid dreams to keep him from discovering the truth, but this at least would alleviate some of the anxiety he was having about them.

"I'll be taking the things down now, sir." Martha picked up the tray and turned towards the door.

"Yes, thank you, Martha." John opened the day's newspaper and began reading as Martha slipped out and closed the study door. After a couple of minutes, he glanced at the door. "Well, Dr. Freud may be able to tell me what my dreams mean, but that doesn't mean I can't try my hand at creating entertainment from them whilst I wait for such an analysis."

Tossing the newspaper aside, he snagged the journal and flipped a few pages. "Ah, here's one to start with. Great spider-demons from under the earth, threatening the whole of humanity." He glanced at the clock. "I've two hours before my first class. I might as well make a start." Pulling a few sheets of paper from his desk drawer, John smiled in anticipation of his new project and began to write.


	10. A Fragment of the Timestream, Part 1

**Author's Note**: I didn't intend for this story to be part of this series, because it's a bit of a departure from its core intent. However, I managed to keep the story true to canon, and therefore, I don't see why it couldn't have happened.

* * *

Chafing at the restriction the long dress and wool coat placed on her movements, Leela fidgeted as she walked down the street with the Doctor, trying to loosen the cloth that was hampering her. Even her chestnut hair, which normally hung loose past her shoulders, was tied with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. She would never admit to the Doctor, though, that this was an improvement: she need no longer worry about stray locks in her face during the chaos of battle. Not that there was any chance of such glory here, in this large village of unarmed humans who barely noticed things that were going on around them as they rushed on to who knows where.

"You don't need to keep adjusting your clothes, Leela," the Doctor remarked, his tone as condescending as ever. "You appear very convincing as a native of this time and place."

"This garb is impractical. I cannot move well in it. And with so many layers of cloth, it will take me too much time to get to my dagger." She lifted her coat a bit to reveal the dress and petticoat beneath it.

"There's nothing to threaten us here, Leela. This is Norwich, a civilized city in England on Earth." He gestured at the people and vehicles passing by. "It's quite safe."

The warrior girl looked around her, but she would never allow herself to let down her guard. "From what I have seen, the places you claim are 'quite safe' rarely are. The last time you had me wear such strange clothing, we were attacked the moment we stepped out of the TARDIS."

"Ah." He nodded, tacitly acknowledging her point. "But if you remember, the city itself wasn't a threat. The danger was brought to it by a stranger, a time traveller from the future."

"And you are both a stranger and a time traveller."

Inclining his head to the side, he wagged a finger at her. "Don't get philosophical, Leela. It doesn't suit you."

"What is 'philoso...' er, 'philos...'? What is that word?"

Amused, the Doctor ignored her question. "This is the history of your people, Leela. These humans are learning to make science work for them. They don't constantly have enemies at their gate. They don't have to work every day simply to feed themselves, so they have time now for other pursuits. Art, literature, and look there, a street musician."

Vigilant as she always was for hidden threats and assessing the tactical layout of her surroundings, the savage girl cared little for observing culture, and she had to force herself to attend to what the Doctor was telling her and to look at the city and its people themselves. She immediately dismissed the street musician as irrelevant. The buildings were unremarkable: they were similar to what she had seen in London when the Doctor had taken her there at a time twenty years before this one, though this time there were strange black vines strung high on tall, straight poles, all down the street. Horse-drawn carriages of many types crawled in both directions, with individual people walking on the sidewalks dashing among the slow-moving vehicles. She did notice one interesting difference between this city and the one she had seen earlier: the occasional black metal box rattling by on wheels without horses, with people sitting inside it. They made a horrible rumbling noise and belched black smoke from their tail ends.

"The air smells of poison." Leela wrinkled her nose in a sneer.

"That it does. It comes from the engines of those cars there. It'll get much worse in the future, and humans won't learn to clean up after themselves for quite some time." Leela could see his disappointment in this facet of humanity.

"If this is what my ancestors were like, the Sevateem have evolved far past them." Unconsciously, she straightened with pride. "We discarded this evil magic long ago."

The Doctor stopped walking to turn toward her, and followed suit, looking up at him questioningly. "Technology, Leela, not magic. And it's not evil. There's good and bad. These humans are making technology work for them, to provide comfort and leisure that your people do not have, and their world is safer and less violent than yours. These people don't need to carry a weapon to survive every day. And they will learn to apply their science to preserve the natural world, too. It just takes time. Come, you must be hungry. Let me introduce you to some of their culinary arts. There are wondrous meals that can be prepared when you've more than just fire to work with."

As they strolled, the Doctor continued to point out interesting sights and explain to Leela the culture of these strange humans. She knew that the Doctor was trying to educate her (though she truly didn't know what he meant by that) and so she tried hard to understand, but she still found these worlds he took her to bewildering. All her life had been spent fighting the war against the Tesh, and to see men - of all shapes and sizes, obviously not trained warriors - walking down the street without worry, without watching their surroundings for surprise attacks was still completely alien to her. Their nonchalance caused her to be vigilant, nervous, and defensive on their behalf, and though she could not hold her weapon at the ready, her eyes continuously scanned the area for danger.

Thus, when the Doctor suddenly stopped both his stride and his sentence and stared across the street, Leela responded by hunkering into a cat-like stance, ready to spring. She followed his stare to pedestrians strolling past shops. "What is it, Doctor? What is wrong?"

"I'm sure I don't know," he murmured. His tone was both absent and intrigued. His eyes flicked to his companion. "Oh, Leela, it's nothing dangerous. Stand like a lady."

She straightened, but remained cautious. Continuing to watch both the Doctor and the other side of the street, she deduced that the Doctor was concerned with two men in long gray wool coats and black fedoras who were standing in front of a shop, gesturing at the items in the shop window and conversing; all of the other people had moved off, but he still stared in their direction. "Are those two men a threat? I shall need my knife." She began to pull her dress up to get at the scabbard on her thigh, but the Doctor stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"No, leave your knife where it is. They're not a threat, but the one on the left is rather interesting. I should…" As his words trailed off, he strode purposefully out into the street, oblivious to the horses that were pulled up short before they trampled him. Hiking up her skirts, Leela glanced at the carriage to make sure it was still stationary, then ran after him. She ignored the not-so-polite shouts that followed her.

Gaining the opposite sidewalk, the Doctor immediately addressed the men. "Excuse me. Would you happen to know if this haberdashery does good work? I find myself in need of some new trousers." He stepped between them to stare at the items in the window.

Both men turned to the man who just interrupted their conversation, and Leela watched them closely as she approached. The one on the right, a short, rotund man with closely cropped peppered hair and a jovial air about him, looked the stranger up and down, a bit put off by his odd manner of dress. The one on the left, a taller man, though not quite as tall as the Doctor, with russet hair and a narrow face, had a friendly countenance that immediately changed to shock as he spied the newcomer. His mouth dropped open for a moment, then closed as he frowned. Leela's eyes narrowed and she kept a close watch on him as his friend replied to the Doctor.

"I'm sorry but we're wondering the same as you. We're from out of town, shopping for some shirts for John here," he said, indicating his friend. Stepping back, the Doctor nodded in greeting to the taller man, who had, by this time, schooled his expression to be carefully neutral.

"A pity. It's always so difficult to find good workmanship and value, don't you think? Oh, where are my manners? I'm John Smith. Pleased to meet you." Flashing a wide smile with lots of teeth, the Doctor offered his hand to the gray-haired man.

"What an odd coincidence!" the man replied as he glanced at his friend. "You both have the same name! I'm George Andrews." George shook the proffered hand.

John offered his hand also, though his words were for his friend. "It's a very common name. I'm bound to meet someone with it rather often. A pleasure, Mr. Smith."

The Doctor glanced at John's hand. "That's probably not a good idea." Oblivious to John's affronted confusion, he turned to indicate Leela. "And let me introduce my fair companion. This is Leela." Still warily watching the thin man, she saw his tongue flick behind his teeth as he silently pronounced her name at the same time the Doctor spoke it. He seemed just as surprised as she was that he knew it.

"A very unusual name. And a very pretty one." George gave her a slight bow, and John followed suit, still discomfited.

"I am named after the greatest warrior in the history of my people," Leela replied, squaring her shoulders. She was proud of her heritage.

"A woman?" John asked. "She must have been most remarkable."

Leela bristled. "A woman may be as strong a warrior as any man. It is not brute strength that makes a warrior. It is courage and cunning and skill."

"And you have all three in spades." The Doctor continued on to the two men, ignoring her. "If you're not from here, where are you from? If I may ask."

"We're teachers at the Farringham School for Boys, about ten miles northeast of here." John glanced around at the buildings to get his bearings, then pointed in the general direction.

"Ah, locals, at least, then."

"I am," replied George. "Grew up in Cromer. John's from somewhere west, I believe."

"Nottingham, though last I was working in Birmingham. There's a city I don't miss." Leela noticed that he had recovered well. If he was still confused, he was no longer showing it.

"Nottingham?" The Doctor peered at him. "I'd have pegged you for being from much farther away."

John laughed. "Really? Not I. Grew up there, then university and teaching in Birmingham, then here. I'm not much of a traveller. I haven't even been to London, ever." He glanced over the Doctor's outfit, from the felt hat, to the puffy cravat, and down the trailing scarf. "Now you, I'd guess you were from there, but possibly having spent some time in Paris?"

"Leela and I, we're both explorers of a sort, from a long way away and going wherever the wind takes us. Always looking for the new and unusual." Both time travellers watched John carefully.

"It must be a strange wind that brings you to Norwich," remarked George.

The Doctor smiled again, his grin almost manic. "No stranger than any other. There's always something to see, anywhere you go."

John seemed to make up his mind and blurted out before he could change it, "Pray, have you been to Nottingham, or Birmingham, in your travels?"

The Doctor frowned. "Not Birmingham that I can recall. I have been to Nottingham once, quite a long time ago, when I was young. Charming town. Why do you ask?"

"You seem familiar, and I'm simply trying to place you. Though," he laughed, "I think I should remember your name quite well."

The Doctor pursed his lips in thought. "Well, I can't truthfully claim to recognise you."

"No, I suppose not." John shook his head. "I must be thinking of someone else."

"Well." The Doctor clapped his hands together. "Leela and I must be off. I wish you great fortune in your sartorial pursuits, gentlemen."

"'Sartorial'?" mused Leela. "What does this word mean, Doctor?"

"'Doctor'?" Choking on the word, John stared at the tall man in alarm.

The Doctor smiled. "I am a doctor of the sciences."

"He is a man of great wisdom," Leela averred.

"And here we were, thinking so well of ourselves as teachers, with a real man of learning in our midst." George extended his hand to the Doctor, who shook it cordially. "It was an honour to meet you, Dr. Smith."

"And you, Mr. Andrews." The Doctor nodded to the younger man. "Mr. Smith. Come along, Leela." The two travellers took their leave and crossed to the other side of the street.

Once they gained the sidewalk, the Doctor began talking as they walked. "What did you think of them, Leela?"

Leela stated immediately, "The one called George was friendly, but he lacked the focus that a warrior needs to be effective."

The Doctor's mouth curved into a smile. "You don't need to evaluate everyone against the model of a good warrior."

"That is the standard that all of the Sevateem are measured against."

He peered at her as he asked his next question. "And what about John?"

"There is something wrong with him," Leela declared.

"How so?"

"He feels wrong. He feels... he feels like he stands beside himself, that when I look at him, I should look off to the side to really see him." She stopped walking, and the Doctor also stopped and turned to listen to her. "He recognised you. When he first saw you. But he did not know you. And he knew my name, before you told him."

Nodding, the Doctor stared absently as he thought. "You are right. Something _is_ wrong with him. The timestream makes eddies around him, but they are broken."

"More magic."

He looked at her, catching her gaze before continuing. "Science, Leela. Time Lord science. The timestream of the universe encompasses everyone, but..." His eyes wandered as he thought. "He seems to exist in a fragment of the timestream, stretching back about a month and forward about a month, but broken off beyond that, like a vine chopped by a machete."

Leela glanced back toward the haberdashery. "He is dangerous, then. Shouldn't you do something about him?"

The Doctor shook his head. "He's not dangerous. He's an anomaly, but nothing more. He's not a threat to the universe or the vortex. Just a strange human anomaly."

"But how could he know you? How could he know my name?"

"There are any number of explanations for that." He waved dismissively. "For one, he might have some latent psychic ability. It's very rare in humans, but not unheard of."

Leela stepped toward him. "You know, don't you, Doctor? You know what's wrong with him."

"I do not know, Leela, but I have my suspicions. And if I am right, it is best that I leave well enough alone."

. _ . _ . _ . _ .

The delicate moments before he realised he was awake were always the most enjoyable for John. He was no longer immersed in his vivid dreams in which he was the mad explorer flying from one adventure to the next, yet he wasn't quite John Smith the schoolteacher, but instead some delicious mix of the two. To be someone else and yet yourself, to explore the world without stepping foot out of your bedroom: that was just enough of a taste of an exciting life for him. He was content with his life at this school, in this tiny village - a bland life, some might say - but with just a touch of spice added by his dreams.

Half a minute more, and he was staring up at the ceiling, the dream slowly retreating back into the night. Eager to catch what was left of it, he sprang up from the bed and threw on his dressing gown, then pulled his journal from his desk drawer. Riffling through it to find a blank page, he spotted something among the scribbles and drawings, and he flipped back a few leaves. His breath caught as he saw the impossible: the face of the man he had met yesterday among the sketches of the ten men that haunted his dreams. John's own face was there, too, but he'd always assumed that these sketches, made hastily as he tried to capture the fleeting images upon awakening every morning, were of the different characters he'd dreamed he'd been, all called "the Doctor."

John collapsed back in his chair and clapped his hand to his mouth as his mind whirled. _How could this be? How could this "Doctor" in my dreams be walking down the streets of Norwich? I thought _I _was the "Doctor" in the dreams. Who was that man? _

_Doctor_. The woman, Leela, had called the man "Doctor". _Of course she would_, he chided himself. _He's a doctor. What else would she call him?_ He couldn't admit to himself that as a friend and travelling companion, and not a student, colleague or patient, she shouldn't be addressing him by a title. And the woman herself, she'd been in his dreams, too, though only a handful of times.

Propping his elbows on the desk, he buried his face in his hands. That encounter had disturbed him, and he realised now that he'd tried very hard to forget it, to ignore the puzzles it created. Though it always seemed to him that having such dreams was unusual, they didn't bother him, but now they were walking in broad daylight. It was impossible. _I must be remembering Dr. Smith incorrectly. The man in my dreams couldn't possibly look that much like him. I think. Am I going mad?_

A knock on the door jolted him back to the present, and he called, "Enter." He looked up to see his maid, Martha, entering with his breakfast and the morning newspaper. She saw the confusion in his eyes and that he had been leaning on the desk, and she stopped short.

"Are you all right, Mr. Smith? What's wrong?"

He straightened and smiled at her before answering. "Oh, nothing really, Martha. Just worrying about nothing." His attempt to be cheerful and flippant fell flat.

"I can always tell when you're hiding something, sir." She approached and set the tray on the corner of his desk. "Something's happened."

He leaned back and bit his lip. "It was nothing. I met a man in town yesterday, and he looked just like one of the people I see in my dreams. A bit startling, to be honest, but no great matter."

Martha stared at him, mouth agape. "You met a man from your dreams, sir?"

Coming from her, the idea sounded completely absurd. "Well, of course not, not really. He just looked uncannily like him." He reached his long arm out to tap the sketch in the journal. "This one here."

Martha glanced over at it. "Who is that?"

"The Doctor."

The maid frowned, confused. "But, sir, in your dreams, _you're_ the Doctor."

"Yes."

She pointed at the sketch of himself. "That one's you, sir. Not the other one."

"Right, Martha. But he's also the Doctor."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "You're him in your dreams, sir?"

"Sometimes. In different dreams, I'm all of these." John waved his hand over the ten sketches on the page.

Martha opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, then stared at the page again. "Oh, sir, I don't pretend to understand any of it. But never you mind about it. Look at all these pictures, sir. They're all so different. You're bound to meet people who look like one or two of them sometime. My mum had a word for it, when you see things you thought you saw before…"

"Deja vu? Perhaps that's it. Perhaps I saw this drawing today and it reminded me of the man I met. Well, whatever the cause, there's no use dwelling on it, is there?" He stood up to slide his breakfast to himself.

"Just what I say, sir." Glancing one last time at the journal page, Martha turned to start making up the bed.

John was not quite satisfied with the explanation, but as he could not provide one of his own, he tried his best to ignore the incident and its implications. If something like it happened again, he would consider it further, but for now, he had his work to get on with, and he thought about it no more.


	11. A Fragment of the Timestream, Part 2

As she stepped from the carriage, Martha glanced up at the bleak October sky, expecting heavy drops to come splatting down any moment. Pulling her coat closer around herself, she called a thank-you to the driver and was not surprised to receive no reply; he had already shown his disdain for the dark-skinned servant when he collected her fare at the beginning of the trip and left her to open her own door and climb in herself. Looking around, she started walking in the direction she thought was the center of town, keeping tabs on the location of the post so that she could get back here in time to hire the carriage back to Farringham.

Yesterday, Mr. Smith had mentioned that during his excursion into Norwich, he had met a man that not only looked like someone from his dreams, but looked like a person he had been in his dreams. Though the schoolteacher had been disturbed by the encounter, he had no real reason to believe that it was more than just a coincidence, and Martha had encouraged him to ignore it, not worry about it. But she knew better. The dreams he'd been having were real memories of the life he had hidden away and forgotten about, and if someone from that life was walking about town, he could be a threat. He could blow Mr. Smith's cover, or he could attract the Family to the area, or worse yet, he could be one of the Family.

Thus, Martha had traded days off with Jenny and dressed so that she didn't look like a maid and wasn't easily associated with the school. From Emily, she'd borrowed a hat with one of those black veils she could pull down around her face, in case she'd needed to conceal her identity. Then she had caught the post to Norwich, to search for this mystery man. She knew what he looked liked from his drawing in Mr. Smith's journal - a man with a wide face and a mass of dark curls - and Mr. Smith had once mentioned that he was tall and wore a long, multicolored scarf. Hopefully that would be enough to go on.

What she didn't understand was how this man fit into Mr. Smith's dreams or his real life. He always dreamed that he was the Doctor, but sometimes when he dreamed he was the Doctor, he was this man, someone completely different. Of course Mr. Smith really was the Doctor, and had always referred to himself as "the Doctor" as if it was his name, but the existence of this other Doctor, whether dream or real, made it sound more like a title that the mystery man bore as well. Where did they get this title? Was it a Time Lord thing? Does that make this man another Time Lord? The Doctor would certainly want to know if there was another Time Lord existent in the universe, as he believed he was the only one left. But if this man was a Time Lord, would the Family be attracted here by him? She resisted the urge to groan in frustration as she walked. The Doctor never told her everything she needed to know.

Though she knew it was a long shot that she would encounter the man in the city (as she was convinced that even if he wasn't an alien, he was some type of advanced human and probably had already left the area and the time zone), she became increasingly disheartened as she walked the streets for one, then two, then three hours. She kept her eyes on the people she passed and peered into shop windows, and houses when it wasn't too difficult to see, looking for anyone unusual, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She stopped for a quick lunch, first because she was famished and second because it gave her a little time to reconsider her search strategy. Strolling among the most populated commercial districts of Norwich hadn't produced any results, so maybe it was time to walk among the dirtier industrial parts of the city, or the residential areas.

It took Martha a bit more time to get used to the factory district. Its narrower streets and similar, undecorated buildings made it more difficult for her to tell where she was, and she spent more time memorising street names and directions than she had before. Though Norwich wasn't a major industrial city, there were a few factories belching black clouds from their smokestacks, giving everything a gray pallor beyond that of the overcast day. Martha lowered her veil, feeling very exposed. Though the streets were busy with lorries and carriages ferrying cargo and businessmen, pedestrians were limited to workers, none of which were female. She suspected that the women were inside the factories, on the assembly lines.

Thus, the sight of a lone female rushing from a factory across the street into a warehouse piqued her interest. She was coatless, and the style of her deep blue dress indicated that she wasn't a worker; perhaps an owner's wife or daughter. However, what really caught Martha's eye was the woman's movements. As she ran, she had hiked her skirts up far higher than was necessary to keep her from tripping over her hem: Martha caught a flash of her knees. More than that, though: she was athletic, her body graceful and powerful. She was so out-of-place for 1913 that Martha had to investigate. Once the woman had disappeared into the building, the maid crossed the street, walking slowly to not attract attention, and slipped into the same warehouse door.

She found herself in a small office, bare of ornamentation and its wooden furniture stacked with papers and record books. The door into the main part of the warehouse stood open, and Martha could hear indistinct voices emanating from deep within the building. Pausing for a bit to let her eyes adjust to the diminished light, she crept to it to look and listen.

The door opened onto a short flight of stairs that led down to the warehouse floor. Most of the warehouse consisted of many aisles of massive shelving, stacked with crates and containers, but the center, the only part with adequate lighting, was clear. Beneath the main electric lamp that depended from the ceiling was the man who was unmistakably Martha's quarry, very tall with dark curly hair and a wide face, wearing a long tweed coat, a floppy felt hat, and a striped scarf that trailed the ground even though it was draped twice about his neck. Behind him was a man holding a gun pointing at his back. Opposite him, a young man with closely cropped blond hair and a handsome narrow face leaned against a stack of pallets. Dressed in an expensive, immaculate suit, he regarded the tall man with a sneering smile.

"And that's what this is all about?" asked the man in the scarf, his clear, strident voice echoing. "A get-rich-quick scheme of bringing future technology to humans a hundred years early? I must say, Carter, that's rather disappointing. I had hoped that you had some ambition. Take over the world, build a spaceship to invade other planets, corner the market on pomegranates, that kind of thing."

"It's hardly a quick scheme. I'll have to slowly release things, so it doesn't look too suspicious, and it will take quite a bit of time and work. Can't have a 1913 schoolboy carrying an iPod around, now can we? 1933, maybe." Carter shrugged, clearly not considering his captive any threat. "It's insurance, you see. Humans get to evolve just a tiny bit faster, while my family, my future family, gets to live comfortably and well. That's all I'm after. Win-win, I'd say."

"It always appears as win-win to the person doing the winning. I can't allow this, you know."

Martha grinned. This Doctor sounded exactly like her Doctor, perfectly confident in his ability to stop any threat.

"And who the bloody hell are you to make that decision?" Carter shrugged. "Not like you can stop me." He glanced at the man with the gun. "Goss, take care of him." He jerked his head at the Doctor.

A blur of blue dashed out from the shelves behind Goss and tackled him, and a shot rang out. Both the Doctor and Carter watched as the woman in blue wrestled the man to the ground, then knocked him hard in the face. His gun clattered on the cement floor. The Doctor called out, "Leela, that's quite enough. He's unconscious. Let him be."

Kneeling over the man, the woman named Leela pulled her dress up and unsheathed the knife in the scabbard attached to her leg. She glared at Carter. "Your plans cannot be allowed to proceed. I shall stop you."

"Put the knife away, Leela. There's no need for that." As the Doctor turned back towards Carter, Leela rose to her feet, her knife still in her hand. "It's over, Carter. Time to give it up and return to your own time."

"Oh, I don't think so." He pushed his sleeve back to reveal a device on his arm like a very large wristwatch mounted on a thick leather band. "I'll just set up shop sometime else. You might be able to find me, but next time, I'll make sure you can't interfere."

He began pressing buttons on the device. Before Martha could even think of what she could do to help, Leela sprang toward him, her knife raised, but the Doctor pulled her back. "No, no violence. Let him go."

Martha burst through the door and, holding her hands in front of her like she had a gun, screamed, "Don't move or I'll shoot!" Carter whirled on her while Leela ducked and rolled behind some shelving, but the Doctor dashed to Carter and punched about four buttons on his device at once. As he stepped back from the blond man, Carter gasped with a panicked look on his face. Blue energy coruscated over his body and he disappeared.

"Splendid!" the Doctor cried before turning to Martha. "And who are you?" Martha saw Leela creeping around the shelving to get a tactical advantage on her, but the Doctor noticed her as well. "Leela. Behave now. Let's greet our new acquaintance peacefully."

The maid straightened, holding her hands up. "I don't really have a gun. I just wanted to distract him for you."

The Doctor bowed. "I thank you for the diversion. It was just what I needed."

Martha pointed at the spot Carter had been standing in a moment before. "But he got away."

"Oh, no. Quite the opposite, in fact." The Doctor paced around the spot, investigating the lack of a man standing there. "I really only had time to hit the emergency shutdown function on the vortex manipulator. However, the first thing it does at shutdown is warp back to headquarters." He stopped and held his arms wide, grinning in triumph. "A man with a shut-down stolen manipulator sitting in the middle of the Time Agency headquarters. I doubt he'll be able to talk his way out of that one." He glanced at the warrior woman. "You see, Leela, she is not an enemy."

"No, I'm not," Martha hastened to confirm. "I'm looking for you."

"Are you now?" The Doctor seemed amused. "Are you quite sure?"

Martha straightened, holding her head high. "Oh, I'm sure, Doctor."

The Doctor eyed her with interest. "How did you find me?"

She shrugged. "I walked around town for a bit. Then I thought, look for trouble."

"That was a wise plan," complimented Leela. "The Doctor is skilled at finding conflict."

The Doctor flashed another toothy grin. "Well, you seem to have found me. Why don't you come down here, where I can see you properly?"

Martha trotted down the stairs and walked up to the Doctor, while Leela emerged from her shadow. She still held the knife in her hand, but down at her side, not at the ready.

"Ah, there." The Doctor nodded at the maid. "I am the Doctor, and this is Leela. And you are?"

"I can't say. It's really best if I don't identify myself. Or take this off." She tugged at the veil over her face.

"You will identify yourself when the Doctor asks," Leela cut in, taking a step toward Martha.

"It's all right, Leela. I have a feeling she has a very good reason for concealing her identity." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a white paper bag, which he opened and held out. "Would you like a jelly baby?"

"Uh, sure. Thanks." She picked a random one out and popped it in her mouth.

"Well. What can I do for you?" He offered a sweet to Leela, who declined, then selected one for himself.

"I've come to ask you, are you a Time Lord?"

"Yes, in fact, I am." He dropped the bag of of jelly babies into his pocket.

Martha squared her shoulders with confidence before continuing. "Then, well, I know this sounds really presumptuous, but I need to ask you to leave this area and time zone."

"Why do you need us to leave?"

Martha shook her head. "I can't say."

"Come now. You can't expect us to leave just on your recommendation alone."

Martha sighed. "Look, it's really for your own safety. There are some aliens that are hunting Time Lords. I don't know why and I don't know how, but they can find you, and we really don't want them coming here."

"If you are being hunted," Leela stated, "it would be wise to set up a defensive perimeter. Perhaps it would be best if the Doctor were to join you, to lure your enemy to one prepared spot, so that a counterattack will be focused and effective."

The Doctor placed a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Leela, aliens who can track a Time Lord would likely have technology to lay waste to this entire countryside. Our friend is trying to avoid them even coming here."

Martha nodded. "That's why I'm wearing this veil. I can't take the chance of the aliens seeing me and being able to identify me, and trace me back to where we're hiding."

"Quite right." The Doctor gazed at Martha, thumbing his chin. "From your manner, I can tell that you're not from this time zone. Perhaps a hundred years from now, I'd say. Am I correct?"

The maid was impressed. "Almost spot on."

"How did you get here, then? Are you travelling with me?"

Martha frowned at the odd question. How could she be travelling with someone she just met? "What? Is that an invitation? I'm already travelling with a Doctor."

"Yes, of course you are. I already figured that... Oh." The Doctor paused a moment, comprehension dawning on his face. "Oh, I see. You're travelling with your Doctor. I understand."

Martha could tell she was missing something, but she had no idea what, so she returned to her objective. "And he's very afraid of these aliens. You really do need to leave this place. It's dangerous."

"Yes, I see. We really should." The Doctor whirled and began inspecting the items on the shelves around them. "We've just a bit here to clean up, get the future tech removed and all that, and then we'll be gone.''

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, this won't take too long. Carter hadn't gotten really set up yet." He spun towards Martha again. "You should head back home."

Martha smiled with relief. "Thank you very much. I'm so glad you understand."

"I do. And please," he stepped forward and offered his hand, "relay to your Doctor my warmest regards."

Martha shook the Doctor's hand. "Are you the only other Doctor? Would he know who they're from?"

"Oh, there are others, yes, but he'll be able to figure it out, I'm sure."

"All right." She stepped back. "Okay. I should go. Nice to meet you, Leela."

Leela glanced at the Doctor, then replied with some awkwardness, "It was 'nice' to meet you, too, mystery woman."

Martha bobbed a curtsey out of recent habit and retreated out the door she entered through.

. _ . _ . _ . _ .

"I think it's time I took you to a more technologically advanced time, Leela. You need to see that technology is not a bad thing. It's not at all what the Tesh made it out to be to the Sevateem." The Doctor began inputting coordinates into the TARDIS console.

"The mystery woman. You said that she came from nearly one hundred years in the future of this time. Can you take me there?"

The Doctor turned to Leela, smiling. "I am impressed! You're showing more interest in learning about your past. That sounds like as good a destination as any. Let's see how Norwich has changed. Norwich, 2013." He continued working to send the TARDIS into flight.

"Doctor? What do you think they are, that are hunting Time Lords? There must be some way to fight them." As a reflex, she grabbed at her skirt to reassure herself that her dagger was there.

"I'm sure there is, Leela, but whatever they are, the other Doctor chose not to do so. There must be a good reason for that."

"Who is this other Doctor? Are there many Doctors?"

He turned away from Leela, fixing his gaze on the monitor. "At least five of us, yes."

"I should like to meet them."

"It's best we don't. There are rules…" He turned back to her and smiled, all teeth. "Don't worry yourself about them, Leela."

"I am not worried. I am curious."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps you will meet them someday. For now, it's time to change into some clothing appropriate for the twenty-first century. You'll find them a lot more practical, though you won't be able to carry your weapon."

"I shall find a way to wear my knife, Doctor."

"I'm sure you will."

. _ . _ . _ . _ .

When the voice in the room called, "Come in!" Martha nudged the door open, carrying a small basket filled with fruit. Mr. Smith was sitting in an armchair, reading, and as she entered his study, she curtsied to him.

"Good evening, sir. The kitchen received some crates of apples and grapes today, and I thought you might like some." She brought the basket to him, offering him its contents.

"Oh, excellent!" He leaned forward and chose an apple, then took a bite. "Delicious! Thank you, Martha." As she turned to deposit the basket on his desk, he continued speaking. "I thought you had taken the day off?"

The maid moved on to his bed and began turning it down. "I returned early, sir, so I thought I would finish out the day."

"You should be out enjoying your leisure. I can endure without you for one night, you know." Mr. Smith winked at her.

Martha ducked her head, embarrassed. "Jenny was so nice to take my shift today, sir. I wanted to come back and let her have the rest of the day." Finished with the bed, she started tidying his desk.

"You're very kind, Martha. I hope you enjoyed your holiday."

"I did, sir. I travelled into town, to take care of some things. Got it all done, too, sir. Made me feel quite a bit better, it did." She set the last sheaf of papers in the center of the desk and tapped it with a flair of satisfaction.

Mr. Smith smiled. "That's good to hear. It's always a wonderful feeling, accomplishing something important."

"That it is, sir. Did you want a warming pan tonight, sir?" she asked as she checked the fire, which was adequately built up.

He shook his head. "Oh, it's not that cold yet. Not for another month, I'd say."

"Very good, sir. Will that be all?" Turning to face him, she gazed at him as she awaited his reply. Comfortable in his chair with his book, he seemed secure and content.

"Yes. Thank you, Martha. Have a good night." As she curtsied and turned towards the door, he returned to his reading.

"Sweet dreams, sir." Taking one last look at the schoolteacher, Martha withdrew from his apartments and closed the door.


	12. A Proper Doctor

Martha was not surprised that her knock on the door received no answer. Steadying the tray she carried, the maid pushed her way into the schoolteacher's study despite not receiving permission to enter, a slight frown creasing her brow as she was greeted by warm, humid, stuffy air.

"Mr. Smith?" she called softly. "Mr. Smith? I've brought your dinner, sir." There was no answer, again, as expected. She proceeded into the darkened office and set the tray on the teacher's desk before she allowed herself to look at him lying in the bed.

Wrapped in the bedclothes, only his head was visible, his brown hair a spiky mess. At the moment, he was sleeping peacefully, his pallid face still, which was a relief; more often than not, he twitched and moaned in response to the dreams induced by the fever. She was loathe to wake him when he was getting the sleep he needed, but he also needed to eat, and she couldn't spend too much time with him, not at this time, as her duties demanded that she be downstairs, serving the schoolboys' evening meal.

Kneeling by the bed, she stroked his hair and called again. "Mr. Smith? Mr. Smith? It's time to get up for a little bit, sir." He shuddered at her touch, and his dull, bloodshot eyes fluttered open. Gazing past her, he moaned low in his throat then convulsed with a spate of congested, wet coughing. The maid grabbed the nearby glass of water and waited for his spasms to subside. Presently, he recovered and, taking the glass from her, drank the liquid down, wincing at the pain from swallowing.

"I've brought your dinner, sir," she murmured with a tenderness she hoped would comfort him a little, as she took the glass from him. "Soup and a bit of bread, sir, and tea. You need your fluids." Idly wondering if "fluids" was an appropriate word for a common maid to use, she rose and stepped to the window. "We should get some fresh air in here, too, sir." Pulling the curtains aside, she flipped the latch and pushed the window ajar, delighting in the cool October breeze. It wouldn't do to let in too much cold, but the room's stale air needed refreshing.

His eyes barely open, Mr. Smith looked over at the tray on the desk, then fell back on the bed and rasped, "Not hungry."

Hands on her hips, the maid turned toward the poor man. "You have to eat, sir. Get your strength back."

She could barely hear him mumble, "Go 'way, Martha."

"No, I won't." She knew he was too sick to notice she wasn't addressing him as "sir," so she dropped the honorific. Dragging the small table near the bed, she picked up the tray and set it there, then coaxed him to sit up. "Come on. I'll help you." When he groaned and tried to roll over away from her, she urged him again and propped him into a sitting position with pillows. She then sat on the bed next to him to help him eat.

As she spooned soup for him, she studied him carefully, noting that he looked pretty much as bad as he had the day before. His eyes were dull and sunken, he was wheezing, and his mouth hung slack as he could not breathe through his nose. Each swallow was an ordeal, as his burning throat made him fight to get every morsel down. He was already a thin man, but it seemed to Martha that he looked almost skeletal, indicating that he had lost a bit of weight over the last couple of days. When he raised a hand to ask her to hold the food for a little while so he could let the pain in his throat subside, she took the opportunity to feel his neck. He was burning up, but his heartbeat was strong. _Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump._ She didn't have a watch to time it exactly, but based on her experience, his heart rate was normal, at least for a human.

"Just a bit more, then the bread. Come on." Mr. Smith grunted an agreement, and she fed him the last few spoonfuls of the soup. "How was that?" she asked, as she handed him one of the pieces of toast.

"Can't taste a thing," he groaned, and bit into the bread. "Oh, I ache..."

"Let's see what we can do about that." She put the second piece of toast into his hand, then, standing up, put the tray back on the desk and fetched the box of medicines that Matron Redfern had left for him. "Here's some aspirin." Uncapping the bottle, she poured out two tablets and set them on the table. "And some codeine for your cough. Castoreum? What's that?" She glanced at the label. "For pain and fever. Here's phenacetin. For pain and fever, too, but that one I know is dangerous in the long term. Well, aspirin's also for pain and fever, so we'll stick with that."

Mr. Smith lifted a heavy arm to point at a tin. "That."

Martha picked it up and read the label. She sputtered and nearly dropped it. "Cocaine lozenges? No. No way."

"My throat," he whined and tried to grab the tin from her.

"You'll just have to soldier through. No coke for you." She pocketed the tin. "What other horrible things do we have here?" She started selecting bottles to read the labels, but Mr. Smith moaned again, and with an apologetic "Oh!" she put the box away and brought him a glass of water. "Here you go." After he swallowed the aspirin with great difficulty, she fed him a spoonful of the codeine. She then placed his glass with the other dinner things and began to tuck him back in. "Okay. Let's lie back down, and I'll take your things down so you can get a bit more sleep."

"No. Don't go," he pleaded. He reached up, placing an exhausted hand on hers.

With a tender smile, she stroked his shoulder. "It's dinner downstairs. I've got to go. I'll come back directly after, I promise."

For the first time all day, his eyes cleared and he stared at her like a lost child. "Please stay," he wheezed. Then the pain and fever clouded him again, and he choked and coughed.

Martha wrung her hands and glanced at the door. She was expected to be down in the dining hall at this very moment. This normally wasn't a problem, as Mr. Smith dined with the students when he was healthy and she therefore didn't have a conflict between working for the school and serving him. If she didn't show up, the evening meal would be shorthanded and the cook and the butler, and probably Headmaster Rocastle himself, would have her hide. But... she looked again at Mr. Smith, who had leaned back on the pillows again, his breath whistling in his throat, and she made up her mind. _The reason I'm here at all is to care for him, and that's what I'm going to do. This will probably earn me a beating._ She suppressed a sigh.

"Of course I'll stay. Just a moment." Bringing over a small basin and a towel, she sat on the bed and wet the cloth, then wiped Mr. Smith's brow, cheeks, and neck. "Doesn't that feel good? We'll bring your temperature down a bit."

"Mm-hmm." The corners of his mouth twitched a tiny smile for just a moment.

Martha continued to swab his face with the wet towel. As he lay there, he moaned and thrashed his head every half-minute or so. After a while, his breath evened out and she was convinced he was asleep, but as she debated sneaking out, he twitched. His eyes snapped open, but he didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. "Wh- where is she?"

Martha frowned. "Where's who?"

"I must find her. She's not gone off again, has she?" His eyes cast about the room, but saw nothing.

Martha bit her lip. _Is he looking for Rose? Who else could "she" be?_ She placed a hand on his arm to try to get his attention. "Who are you looking for?"

Mr. Smith's eyes fixed on her face, but he wasn't seeing her. "Ah, Nyssa. You must know where Tegan's gone, yes?"

The maid drew back. She recognised the names from one of his dreams that he had told her about, dreams of the Doctor. It confirmed his delirium. She offered him an answer. "No, Doctor, I don't."

"Oh. That's very odd, if she didn't tell _you_. I can't imagine she's left the..." His voice trailed off and his eyes closed again. She pulled the blankets up to cover him better and tucked them in. In a moment, though, he twisted and jerked, then stared at Martha again.

"Oh, my word! I've made your face up wrong again, haven't I? I was rushed. I..."

Startled and a little insulted, Martha drew back as his words trailed into incoherence. She soaked the towel in the water and, squeezing it out, laid it on his forehead. Then, she dipped her hands in the water and held them against his neck. Glancing over at the bottle of aspirin, she murmured, "Come on, work! I hope these medicines are dosed correctly. Urgh! What, another thirty years or so until paracetamol?"

Mr. Smith continued to mumble and squirm, talking to people who weren't there. Martha recognised a few of the names and places he mentioned, but for the most part, what he said made little sense. She noticed subtle changes of wording and attitude, as well as some jarring shifts in accent, jumping between a formal accent, his normal (or previously normal, anyway) clipped London voice, a jaunty Lancashire accent, and a Scottish burr with heavily-rolled Rs. Though the fever worried her, she couldn't help but be fascinated. She knew that he dreamed that he was different men called the Doctor, but she also knew that, just like he was actually the Doctor, these men were also real. _How can he dream about being them so vividly that he talks in their accents?_ She mopped at his brow again, then jerked straight, frowning in confusion. _Why do all these Time Lords from all the way across the galaxy have various British accents? Wait. He told me that he was the last Time Lord. None of this makes any sense._

She tended him until he finally settled into a relatively calm sleep. Resolving to return after the evening meal to work on breaking his fever, she refreshed the towel once more, then rose from the bed, moving slowly so as not to disturb him. Shutting the window, she fetched the dinner tray and crept out.

. _ . _ . _ . _ .

As Martha reached the landing with Mr. Smith's breakfast, she spotted weak sunlight streaming into the dark hallway from the door to his study, which stood slightly ajar. Balancing the tray in one hand, she knocked, then pushed the door open with her shoulder as a female voice called, "Come in!" When she entered the study proper, she curtseyed to Mr. Smith, who was sitting propped up in his bed, and Matron Redfern, the school nurse, standing near him.

"Good morning, sir, ma'am. I've brought your breakfast, Mr. Smith. Are you feeling better?"

The teacher groaned in response. "I feel horrible. It's so hot in here. Can you open the window?"

Martha deposited the tray on the table near him and trotted over to the window to open it, while the matron leaned over and folded his blankets down off his chest. "You just had me close the window. You said it was too cold."

"But now it's too hot." He eyed the tray, placed just out of his reach.

"Here. Let me get that for you." The matron picked up the tray and, sitting on his bed, set it in her lap. Mr. Smith selected a piece of toast and bit into it. After chewing a bit, he swallowed, grimacing.

"Oh, that burns!" he exclaimed before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

"Chew it well and it'll go down softer," the matron suggested, holding another piece of toast ready for him. "There's a bit of cold chicken here, if that sounds better to you."

"Yes, please." As Mr. Smith ate his breakfast with Matron Redfern's help, Martha cleaned up the study, removing rubbish and putting away the books the teacher had tried to read when he wasn't able to sleep. It wasn't long before he'd cleaned off the tray and he sat back, sipping his tea. The matron smiled, as if he had accomplished a great feat.

"There now, Mr. Smith. I am sure you feel much better for that."

The teacher stretched his shoulders and rubbed his arms. "Everything aches," he sputtered, his voice catching in his throat, causing him to cough again.

"Let's see what we have for you." The nurse rose an, stepping to the desk, searched through the medicine box. She selected three bottles, then began sorting through the rest, looking for something. "Hm. I can't seem to find... But, we'll have you sorted right away." She returned to the bed and placed the bottles on the small table. "Do you have enough tea to drink this down? Good." She poured out a couple of tablets from a bottle and handed them to him.

"Aspirin for the aches, and for your fever." She nodded as he gulped them down. "You've been coughing a bit, so this is laudanum -"

"Laudanum?" Martha spun around, her jaw dropped in horror. "No way!" she cried, then grimaced as she realised she'd uttered her anachronism far out of turn. "Ma'am, Mr. Smith doesn't need such extreme measures," she continued in a respectful tone.

"Extreme?" Matron Redfern, taken aback, stared at the bottle in her hand. "This is a common treatment for cough."

"It's dangerous, ma'am." From the matron's glare, the maid could tell that she'd have to explain herself. "That stuff makes people different. They have to have it, and they just waste away. It's bad and I won't let him have it, ma'am."

"It's not your place to make such decisions, girl. This is one of the best remedies for cough, and -" The nurse held up a finger to forestall the complaint as Martha drew in her breath to protest again. "_And_ I am giving him one dose. Just one." She stared at Martha until the maid nodded her acknowledgement. "Mr. Smith will get his relief, and you will have your peace of mind."

"Thank you, Matron."

As Martha watched and wrung her hands, the nurse administered the medicine, mixed in honey, to Mr. Smith, who choked down the bitter mixture and complained loudly. "Shush, you," she chided. "It's all for your own good. And this," she said as she picked up the last bottle, "will strengthen your heart."

"There's nothing wrong with his heart!" Martha blurted before she could stop herself.

"What?" Matron Redfern rose to her feet to tower over the small maid. "Are you questioning my expertise? Again?"

Martha's first impulse was to cower like the timid, ignorant servant she was pretending to be, but a glance at Mr. Smith strengthened her resolve. "No, ma'am, I am not. But his heart's strong. You're going to give him the digitalis, aren't you, ma'am? He doesn't need it and it won't help."

The matron gaped at her. "What would you know about medicine? Of course it will help. Mr. Smith is very ill and strengthening his heart will help him recover."

"He's only got the flu, ma'am. He'll recover on his own." The maid refrained from mentioning that it was his immune system that would heal him, not his heart; that concept was far behind her station. "And besides, he's already recovering. His fever broke last night, and look at him, ma'am: talking and complaining, playing on your sympathies like a little boy." Behind the nurse, Mr. Smith blanched and lowered his eyes in embarrassment. "When he was truly ill, he wouldn't eat and could barely speak a word. He'll be up and about later today, ma'am, just you watch."

Matron Redfern drew herself up. "I am this school's nurse. I have the education and experience to determine how ill he is and -"

"No." Mr. Smith's raspy negative drew the attention of both women. "Martha is right. I've been making myself out to be more ill than I really am." A spasm of coughing prevented him from continuing for a bit. "I mean, I am still sick, but not that badly, and I'm getting better. Matron Redfern, I thank you for your ministrations, but Martha has been caring for me for years, keeping me healthy and nursing me when I needed it. I trust her judgment."

The matron looked back and forth between the teacher and the maid, then sighed. "There's nothing much I can do if you are going to refuse to take the medicines I prescribe. But yes, I can see that you're recuperating." Her eyes raked over Martha. "I will advise against using any folk remedies until you've consulted with me, however."

"Yes, ma'am." Martha curtsied. "I'll be sure to ask first before I do anything else."

Leaving the aspirin bottle behind, the nurse gathered up the other medicines and placed them in the medicine box. "You won't be needing these. Though, where did those cocaine lozenges get to? They are a welcome relief for sore throat. I'll bring some up when I find them." As the matron picked up the box, Martha stifled a devious smile. "Please bring down those bottles when you're done with them. Good day, Mr. Smith." The matron turned and strode out of the study.

"I'm sorry to put you on the spot like that, sir," Martha began. "I just -"

"Never you mind, Martha. I can tell when something is important to you. You've never been one to back down from a fight." Mr. Smith smiled at his maid, with amusement dancing in his eyes. "I appreciate that you're fighting for me, even against the Matron."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, if I'm going to be accused of behaving a little boy, I had better act the part." He began to whine in a nasal voice. "I want more tea, and bring me the books on Cromwell from that bookshelf behind you." Burying his face in his sleeve, he choked out some exaggerated coughs. "My body aches oh so very much and I can barely move."

Biting back a grin, the maid snapped, "Yes, sir!" and trotted to the bookshelf to fetch the tomes.


	13. Looking to the Future

Stumbling into the tiny room she shared with Jenny, Martha collapsed on her cot and tried her hardest to keep from bursting into tears. The stripes on her back, hidden by her maid's uniform, stung and burned, and would only get worse as she worked through the evening, serving dinner to the scores of snobby boys and cleaning the kitchen afterward, then attending Mr. Smith until he retired. She had only this brief moment of respite to collect herself, to regain her resolve.

The beating hadn't even been fair. It hadn't been her fault that the bucket had overturned, spilling dirty suds all across the west wing corridor and blocking passage during class change. That boy, Master Palmer - _Little Tommy_, she liked to think of him, as she felt that few of the boys deserved the honorific she was required to give them - had kicked the bucket as he was passing. She suspected he'd only meant to splash her with the filthy water, to give his schoolmates something to laugh at, but his kick had gone wide. By the time authority had arrived, in this case in the form of Mr. Andrews, the maths teacher, all of the boys in the corridor were parroting the story that she'd tossed the bucket in Palmer's path. It didn't take long to get dragged down below stairs for punishment - after cleaning up the mess, of course.

The only thing about this encounter she could be proud of was that she'd refrained from yelling in protest when the bucket had gone flying. The boys were experts at torturing the lower wait staff with impunity, and they'd learnt to target her because she hadn't yet reined in her tongue. Her first instinct was to defend herself, but it never helped - and, in fact, got her even deeper into trouble, as a woman of her skin colour dared to talk back to a white boy - and she'd finally learnt to suppress it. It had only taken her two weeks of toiling away, serving these malicious, arrogant lads to learn to defend herself with silence.

Hugging herself against the throbbing of her back, Martha resisted the urge to lie down to relax for a few minutes; she'd be taken to task again if a single hair was out of place. Instead, she stared at her shoes and tried to remember why she was here, doing menial labour in 1913, in the first place. She didn't know why but sometimes, it was so difficult to remember. _I've seen so many wonderful, beautiful things, travelling with the Doctor, and it only stands to reason there'll be hard times, too. But is this worth it? What about Mum? Is all the wonder worth falling out with her?_

Pushing herself to her feet, she dropped to her knees by her small trunk and, pulling her key from her pocket, opened the lock. She threw the lid back and dug under the very few possessions she had for the most valuable and dangerous thing she owned: her mobile. Punching the "on" button, she threw a nervous glance at the door as she waited for it to power up. Every time she touched it, she wondered what would happen if she were found, here in 1913, with a piece of 2008 technology. Would this tiny object be enough to throw a twentieth-century English town back to the days of witch hunts? But it was worth the risk, because it was her only connection to home and family.

As soon as the home screen appeared, she opened her photos, her fingers now so accustomed to the keypresses required to pull them up that she no longer needed to read the menus. A soft, tender smile blossomed, illuminating her eyes, her very skin. _There's Leo's party. Tish and Mum. Dad and… Annalise._ She sneered at that image, though with a touch of fondness. _Oh, and the mixer at school. Oliver and Julia. And, oh, Mum and Leo and the baby._ Somehow, the pain on her back seemed duller, less distracting. _I'm sorry, Mum. I'll tell you all about it, when I finally come home, I promise. I love you all, but I have to do this. Yeah, I'm doing this for the Doctor, but it's really for myself. I can't pass this up. And it's all worth it._

Powering down the mobile, she tucked it back in the trunk and locked it up tight. Climbing to her feet, she straightened her dress, checked herself over, and strode out of the room to get back to work.


End file.
